Gray Harbor
by Axia West
Summary: Months pass. Years go by. In the wake of Revan's sudden departure to the Unknown Regions, Carth struggles to understand his place in the galaxy. Unraveled by her disappearance, he becomes a shadow of his former self, lost and alone.
1. 01 Brothers

**Disclaimer**: I am not affiliated with Star Wars, Lucas Arts or Bioware. No copyright infringement is intended. Please do not use my story elsewhere without my permission.

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* * *

Suddenly the drunken sweetheart appeared out of my door.  
She drank a cup of ruby wine and sat by my side.  
Seeing and holding the lockets of her hair  
My face became all eyes, and my eyes all hands.  
- Rumi (from _Thief of Sleep_)

The smooth, curved neck of the bottle slid back and forth between Carth's fingers. His bleary eyes followed the bottle's path, lulling him, half-hypnotizing him until the nausea rose again sharply in his stomach. He swallowed, unsettled by the familiar sour thickness coating his tongue. He was almost drunk enough. Blinking didn't clear his vision, nor did it ease the undulating pains in his gut. Through the spinning fog of drunkenness, he watched the patrons drifting around the cantina, hovering between the bar and the haphazard cluster of chairs and tables near the panoramic window. On another planet it might have been a breathtaking view, but the only sights to be seen here were the whir of taxi speeders and buzzing neon signs advertising drink specials and exotic dancers in dozens of alien languages.

As he shifted in his seat his boots squelched, glued to the sticky floor. A hum ran below his sluggish thoughts, beating out a low, languid drum beat. The clink of bottles and shot glasses created an incoherent clamor like the noisy warm up of a sleazy Bith band.

Gone. She was gone.

"Want another?"

Another? His eyes refused to focus, wandering upward until he saw the pockmarked Twi'lek waitress that glared down at him impatiently. She snapped her bright blue bubblegum and a puff of stale, strawberry-scented air hit his face. Carth shrugged, sinking further down into his chair.

"Sure."

The waitress turned on her heels and pushed into the throng of drifting, lost drunks mingling between her and the bar. By then, Carth's tab had to be about a mile long; he didn't care. He took in the impressive number of bottles and glasses amassed on the little circular table in front of him and idly pinched a bottle cap between his thumb and forefinger, inspecting it for the fifth time. A little smiling gizka was on the bottle cap, rakishly winking and tipping a cap. He couldn't remember what brand the beer was, only that it had the most ridiculous mascot he had ever seen. A throaty laugh tumbled out of his mouth but it was half-hearted; he smiled grimly at the little dancing gizka and flicked the bottle cap away.

"If you're not careful you'll start seeing signs everywhere."

Carth started, reeling back in his chair to squint at the tall, broad fighter pilot standing at the table. The dim old neon lights of the bar formed a blinking halo around the stranger's head.

"And I'll tell you this much," the stranger said. "Those signs? They're never true."

Carth's memory stirred slowly, bogged down by the powerful haze of intoxication. The man stared down at him but there was no threat there. Gradually, Carth detected an undercurrent of humor in the little upturned corner of the pilot's mouth. Two other people were there suddenly, flanking the pilot; a slim, shapely woman and someone else, a man perhaps, but cloaked heavily in the uneven lighting of the bar.

"Mind if I join you?" the pilot asked. He didn't wait for an answer as he pulled out a chair and dropped into it. He rested one ankle on his other knee, placing an enormous hand on the table.

"When was the last time you were sober?" he asked, flagging down the waitress. She appeared in a little silhouette of stale perfume and spilled beer. Her eyes raked over the space pilot and something like a grin spread across her toothless mouth.

"Water, please," the pilot muttered, "and some coffeine for my friend here." The waitress slinked away, leaving the pilot to sigh and snap his fingers impatiently. "Answer the question, Onasi."

"I don't remember."

"That's what I thought," the pilot replied, pulling a gloved hand through his head of close-cropped sandy curls. "It's ironic, don't you think? You end up a pathetic drunk, taking up permanent residence in a pit like this and I end up being the sober one - kind of poetic in a way. But I think it's time you stopped, Carth, you don't wear defeat very well."

Carth Onasi's half-lidded eyes widened a little as the pilot spoke his name. He took a long, hard look at the man and a spark of sobriety lit up his brain; he might have been staring at a fun house mirror that reflected a distorted, alternate reflection: the same thick curling hair and full mouth, the same tawny skin and strong, patrician nose. But the reflection wasn't quite a mirror image – a synthetic silver patch was strapped across the pilot's right eye and his hair was just a few shades lighter with a widow's peak.

"Fitz?" Carth breathed, leaning back in his chair a little as if his past had suddenly returned in a cold, unexpected blast, chilling his skin.

"Please, it's Gatlin now – Captain Gatlin."

"I thought you were dead," Carth said, planting his elbows on the rickety table. He did not miss the thick wad of credits Gatlin took out of his pocket to give to the waitress. It was more than enough to cover the water, coffeine and Carth's own heavy night of drinking. The pilot gave her a wink before downing half the glass of water in one gulp.

"Don't I get a hug?" Gatlin asked, smiling crookedly again.

"You bastard."

"Now, come on, that's no way to greet your little brother, Carth."

"Get out of here," Carth muttered darkly, waving him away. His hand upset one of the bottles, which shattered at Gatlin's feet. Before Carth would even react to the sound, Gatlin had reached across the table and snatched Carth's wrist. Gatlin's eyes were just like his, the same sad, tapered shape but lighter, much lighter, a pale, steely gray. The pilot's smirk was gone, replaced by a determined, mean sneer. He hadn't seen that expression in years, not since they had been boys, not since…

"Get up, _Admiral_," Gatlin growled, yanking Carth upward and out of his seat. Carth tried to resist, clumsy and uncoordinated, cut off from his usual quick reflexes by the alcohol chugging through his veins. He clutched his stomach, the nausea coming on like a punch to the gut. His vision was going, spinning out of control and that sick feeling was getting stronger, pounding through his entire upper body. A pair of sturdy arms caught him before he could land in the pile of spilled beer and broken glass covering the floor.

* * *

Carth woke with a headache pounding resolutely from ear to ear. He winced as he sat up, cursing the invention of alcohol, cursing his tender head. For a moment, he couldn't remember anything, not the bar, not the conversation with his brother or his moment of overwhelming nausea. Then it returned to him and he groaned aloud, squeezing his head with both hands.

"What a nightmare."

He looked around and recognized his surroundings as some kind of medbay. It was almost exactly the same as the one on his old bird, a light freighter like the _Ebon Hawk_. Same make, same cramped interior and too-small bed. Carth had no recollection of the trip between the cantina and the ship, and even after a long, reflective moment his brain refused to dredge up even the fuzziest memory.

His orange coat had been taken off and folded neatly on the medical tray table next to the cot. Carth tried to imagine his brother doing this, but the gesture was so tender and distinctly feminine that he was certain it was someone else. Gatlin hadn't folded a single piece of clothing in his life; no, his brother hadn't come alone. Next to his jacket, someone had left a square glass beaker filled with a bubbly, fizzing liquid. Carth was more than a little familiar with this drink, which was the quickest way to clear a very bad hang over. He knocked back the glass beaker, tasting the cold citrus fizz of the remedy; a heady rush of relief flooding his bruised brain and sick stomach.

The lights flickered over head, buzzing with the familiar rickety stop-and-go of the _Ebon Hawk's _unpredictable wiring. He knew it wasn't the _Hawk_, couldn't be, but the memories came anyway. Frowning, he pushed those thoughts down, deep down, hoping against hope that his denial would be strong enough to ward off those unwelcome feelings. Revan. Just the thought of her name made his skin tighten and his heart pound. And the smell of the medical bay… Even that tiny detail reminded him of the many hours he had spent administering First Aid to Mission and Jolee and Juhani, the times he had spent at Revan's side binding a wound, handing her gauze and med packs. His elbow tingled, as if it too remembered bumping into Revan's side as they tried to maneuver the tiny room together.

Carth's pulse raced, and for a moment he thought his hangover was returning but it was only momentary, just the stirring of long-buried memories, the remembrance of the lovely Jedi with her violet eyes and wide, reassuring smile.

"Damnit," he said, shaking his head.

"Feeling better?"

When Carth looked up, his brother Gatlin stood in the doorway, his broad frame blocking out the light from the hold. He was bigger than Carth, built wide through the shoulders and narrow through the waist. Their father had joked that if Carth was a _Destroyer_, Gatlin was a _Dreadnaught_. His one good eye twinkled in the flickering light.

"I guess," Carth answered cautiously, "But that depends."

"On?"

"Why are you here, Fitz? What do you want?"

Gatlin shrugged into the room. He wore a heavy charcoal gray coat with a tall, stiff collar and square, silver buttons. The coat brushed the tops of his steel-toed, ankle-high boots. Beneath the coat, Carth could see a Republic issue flak vest, tooled to define the musculature of a human body. It was an old issue, fraying, and probably—he thought with a grimace—stolen.

"The temperature regulator is all screwy on this thing," Gatlin said, nodding to Carth's coat. "We can get you something else to wear or you'll freeze to death. That coat of yours has seen better days."

"Stop avoiding the question," Carth said. "What do you want with me?"

"You're on leave, right?" Gatlin asked.

"I don't see how that's any of your business."

"Weeks and weeks with nothing to do but drink yourself into a stupor… Sounds like a dream come true for you, Carth," he said, chuckling, his mischievous gray eye flashing again. "But I thought you could use a break, you know, a break from your break."

"Thanks for thinking of me," Carth said, rolling his eyes. "But I don't need your help."

"Oh? It looks to me like you could use some." Gatlin reached forward with his gloved hand and poked Carth hard in the side. Carth recoiled defensively, his older brother instincts bubbling with cold anger to the surface. "You're wasting away, Carth, getting old, going to fat. It's not like you. It's not like _us_. You're my brother and you're better than this."

"That's really heartwarming, Fitz, considering you never gave a damn about our family before," Carth said, dropping his arms to his sides to ward off another jab. "Where were you when my wife died and my world collapsed? Where were you when Telos was being ripped to shreds? Why start caring now? Tell me: What do I have that you need? Oh, _besides_ a respectable career."

Gatlin's mouth tightened into a firm, stubborn line as he looked at his brother. The humor, so sparkling and ever-present in his eye, evaporated. He took one big, slow step away from Carth. "Fine. If that's how you want to play it, then fine. Here's the truth: I need your help."

"Forget it," Carth said at once, "I don't help criminals."

"Then there shouldn't be a problem. I'm legit now, have been for two years. Your Republic friends are so desperate for recruits that they asked me to help out… For a fee of course. They were happy to pay – after all, I've got my own ship, my own crew, a hard reputation and that's well worth a few thousand credits," Gatlin said, leaning against the doorframe. "Smuggling routes have all but dried up around here, the Exchange is hemorrhaging credits and people, and—as you know—I'm always up for a challenge."

"They really must be desperate if they asked you to do anything but rot in a cell."

"I was ready to play nice with you, Carth, but I see that was a mistake," Gatlin said, snorting. "So here it is, the bare bones truth, just the way you want it: I need your skills, Carth. I'm not happy about it, but I do. I'm hunting Jedi and who better to help me sniff them out than the famous Admiral Onasi? You're my prisoner now, get it? You can either help me out and we can be friends, or I can turn you over to your debtors and they can sort you out. Violently. See this through to the end and I'll clear your tabs, no questions asked. The brass will never need to know that their favorite shining star has a drinking problem and a pit of debt so deep you could bury a rancor in it."

Carth opened his mouth to object, to point out that what Gatlin was doing was ludicrous and illegal, but his brother had already turned and left, shutting the door on the way out. He shouted, thundered inarticulately, slamming his fist down on the medical tray. The glass beaker shattered, peppering his skin with stinging shards. He swore under his breath, cradling his hurt hand to his chest, scrambling for a kolto pack to stop the bleeding.

What a mess, what a damned stupid mess. Gatlin was the last man in the galaxy Carth wanted to see again. His only memories of his younger brother were bitter, poisonous. Gatlin had always been selfish and reckless, dropping out of academy to gamble and flirt his way from planet to planet, never putting down roots and never contacting his worried family. Carth ripped open a packet of kolto gel with his teeth, spitting out the plastic end with a grunt.

That man had driven Carth's parents to gray-haired despair and all because Gatlin didn't want to follow in Carth's reasonable, responsible footsteps. And what was so bad about being responsible? Carth wondered, dabbing his wounds with the cooling kolto gel. It stung and he grit his teeth, snarling at his brother's invisible form. He threw the empty packet at the door. It was locked, no doubt, since it was clear now that Gatlin had no intention of letting Carth do as he pleased. What a heinous turn of events, he thought, shuddering at the idea of Gatlin being put in charge of anything at all. Sure, he had gotten himself a ship and a crew, but any bantha with two credits to rub together could to that. And the Republic? Relying on someone like Gatlin? Carth had to physically restrain his hand from the temptation of slamming it onto the table again. He had worked all his life in service to peace and justice and now an ingrate like Gatlin was allowed to join the ranks of some of the galaxy's noblest and fiercest protectors.

It didn't make sense. It didn't make a lick of sense.

Carth sincerely hoped that his superiors had nothing to do with this. It was true that he hadn't been himself lately, but surely anyone could see that he had his reasons. He had been scarred, deeply scarred by Revan's disappearance and a man should be allowed to recover and grieve. Mentally he nimbly sidestepped the fact that his grief had taken the form of unhealthy, prolonged days of binge drinking, and instead reaffirmed in his mind that this was in fact nonsense, that his brother was a hooligan and that nothing could possibly induce him to help a ruthless, stealing _schutta_!

_I'm hunting Jedi._

"No," Carth whispered, squeezing his wounded hand. "Don't even consider it. He doesn't mean her. He can't."


	2. 02 Hunters

"Give it time, Gat. He'll come around."

Gatlin looked up from the coordinate console. At the sight of her, a slow smile spread across his face. He patted the copilot seat beside him and leaned back away from the beeping flat screen. A tall, slender woman dropped into the chair and kicked her long legs up onto the dashboard. His copilot, Spryte, stretched her arms over her head and sighed, gazing out at the milky stars streaming by outside the ship. The silver blots reflected in her dark and smoky eyes.

"Thanks," Gatlin said. His head ached, whether from exhaustion or frustration he couldn't tell. "I wasn't… Totally honest with him."

"Whatever it takes," she said matter-of-factly, shrugging. "Right?"

"Right."

Spryte straightened up for a moment, grappling with her long black hair, pulling it back into a high, severe ponytail that spilled like a fountain of oil down her back. Through her clinging bodysuit Gatlin could make out every single bump of her spine. She made a little mewling yawn like a kitten and curled up in the copilot chair, dangling her legs over the armrest. Grinning, she gazed across the cockpit at him, her sleepy smile reminding him of how little rest he'd gotten in recent days.

"You think he'll cooperate?" she asked.

"He will. I dropped the magic word."

"Ahh," she said, drawing out the sound with a giggle of pleasure, "Jedi."

"Mm. And tonight, or tomorrow maybe, the idea that he'll find her again, that _she's_ the one we're after will become too tempting to resist. He'll help us, reluctantly, but he'll do it."

The screen in front of them lit up like a cantina stage, a row of red lights blinking at them insistently, a little siren buzzing and whirring. Gatlin stamped one of the buttons with the toe of his boot and a holograph sparkled to blue life. He recognized his boss at once, a stiff, upright man in a starched Republic uniform.

"Captain," the holograph said, the image distorting for a flickering second, "I trust your mission progresses with speed. I'm afraid the next phase of your task has to be bumped up. Our operators on Onderon have been hard at work and we feel the target will fall for the bait, striking soon, possibly within the next forty-eight hours. Set course for Iziz and make your way there with haste. The trap has been set, Captain, now we must trust that our mark is foolish enough to spring it. End transmission."

The holograph image went black and then reappeared, the message repeating itself. Gatlin ruffled his messy, sandy hair and hit the button again with his toe, cutting off his boss in mid-sentence.

"Idiot," Gatlin muttered. "We're trying to catch a Jedi, not a lungfish."

"They must have struck again," Spryte said thoughtfully, running her fingers through the slick strands of her ponytail, "He sounded desperate."

"Yeah. There's nothing a blowhard like Kantu hates more than looking like an ass in front of the entire fleet. He must be chasing a promotion." Gatlin punched the intercom on the dashboard, "Akil, get up here."

"Do you think Onasi knows?" she asked.

"Carth? No. The Republic's hushed it up. There's no way Kantu would let it leak to the planetside press. And besides, he's been too deep in his cups to notice much of anything," Gatlin replied. Footsteps in the hall drew his attention and he spun the pilot's chair to find their third crewmember, Akil, lurking in the corridor.

"Good, you're here. Change of plans," Gatlin said. He tried hard to keep a note of exhaustion from creeping into his voice, but it was impossible. He was drained and there was no way to hide the deep purple smudges under his eyes. "We need to make Onderon, yesterday. Can you arrange accommodations? Some place quiet in Iziz, out of the way and cheap."

"Of course," Akil replied. He was a Zabrak, short but sinewy and muscular. He wore a black, ribbed jacket and gray trousers striped with several leather holsters of varying sizes and purposes. His skin was patterned in sharp leopard spots of black and mottled bluish gray. His eyes, as always, remained hidden behind a pair of tinted welder's goggles. "Will the Admiral be joining us on Iziz?"

"He will," Gatlin said definitively. "He should. He bloody well better."


	3. 03 Dreamer

Carth woke on the medical cot, his body light and refreshed, renewed by a dazzling dream. It was the first time in months, maybe even years, that he had slept peacefully. Instead of the usual nightmare, he was visited by a vision of serene loveliness. In his dream he had wandered a jungle landscape, following the seductive sound of a woman laughing. It wasn't a mocking laugh, no, it was a girlish giggle, a suggestion to follow, to listen, to venture…

And he had followed her deeper into the forest, finding that with every step his heart grew lighter and his spirits lifted. He was smiling, laughing even, his voice booming against the thick, mossy tree trunks that stood in his path. Vines and nettled leaves brushed at his cheeks and hair but he pushed them away effortlessly, following always that beautiful jewel-toned laughter. Every once in a while he would catch a glimpse of the nymph leading him on this chase, just a peek of creamy flesh through the canopy of emerald branches, or a quick look at her bare feet and the mud caking her toes.

The dream ended abruptly, when he felt he was at last closing in on his quarry. He tumbled forward, pushing aside an enormous palm frond only to find that there was nothing there - no more jungle, no more girl, just a bright, searing light. He woke, out of breath, and sat up quickly on the cot, his face damp with sweat. He started, gasping aloud, thinking the deactivated medical droid in the corner was a silhouette watching him.

"Weird," he said, smacking his palm gently against the side of his head. Part of him knew he should feel relief and that he should be grateful for a good night's sleep and a pleasant dream, but it was also out of the ordinary. Why would such a dream visit him now? He had been more or less kidnapped by a man he had hoped never to see again, locked in a freezing cold medical bay, carried across space to an unknown destination. If ever there was a time for nightmares, now was it.

A short hiss and click later, the med bay door opened to reveal a svelte woman in a bodysuit so tight she may as well have been dipped in black latex and dried in the sun. Carth was careful to keep his face impassive, choosing to fasten his eyes on her pinched, angular face. She carried a folded bundle of clothing but she waited, hovering just outside the room.

"Can I come in?" she asked, raising both of her high arched brows.

"If it's absolutely necessary."

"Just doing my job," she added, stepping inside carefully, tiptoeing as if he had somehow rigged the floor to explode at the first hint of pressure. She tossed the pile of clothing onto the end of his bed, next to his feet. Carth nudged them distastefully with his boot.

"They won't bite," she said with a mischievous grin. Carth could imagine that grin skewering a weaker man. He shrugged.

"Nothing wrong with a bit of caution." He reached over to the clothes and pulled out a thin, thermal tee, a pair of synthetic trousers with bumble bee yellow stripes down the sides and a flashy pilot's coat in deep burgundy. Carth recognized his brother in the clothing and hesitated at the thought of dressing in Gatlin's cast offs.

"I picked those out," she said.

Carth noted that the threads were a little bare, aged maybe. He looked over the pair of trousers to the young woman watching him. "How did you know my size?"

"I just have an eye for these things. Sorry if they're not your style, we can get you something better on Onderon."

"Is that where we're going then?" Carth asked, fiddling with the trousers.

"Yup, first stop. We should be landing soon so get dressed. There's some hot grub in the main hold," she said, turning to go. "I can't stand the food in Iziz, spicy enough to strip the lining off your guts."

"It's the heat," Carth replied. She stopped at the door and indulged him with one bemused eyebrow.

"What do you mean?"

"It's a tropical planet. The spicy food makes you sweat, helps cool you down."

"Yeah? All it does is heat me up, Admiral. Get dressed."

Carth couldn't help but notice the slight note of disappointment in her voice as she commanded him to dress. He shook the idea out of his head, reminding himself that he was a prisoner. He hadn't actually agreed to help these people; there was no use making friends. He vaulted down from the bed, feeling oddly energetic. It was the dream, he knew, but he acknowledged that at the risk of another tense knot springing up in his stomach. He stripped down, wincing at his own sour smell. The 'fresher would be in order after food.

As he finished belting the trousers and pulled on the pilot's coat his mind wandered to the slim girl with the ponytail. She was pretty, that much was obvious, but she had the sly, wounded look of an outcast. She wore her hard life, her lonely life, as plainly as she wore her skintight bodysuit. And that was a defense in a way. He had seen these types before, women who fell from grace, turned to bounty hunting or smuggling and used their sexuality like a weapon. He couldn't blame them; didn't men do the same? Wasn't that exactly how Gatlin operated?

He grumbled at the tightness of the shirt and trousers. Gatlin was right; he was out of shape. His trim waist was expanding and the muscles in his arms had lost some of their definition. With a pang of embarrassment he groped for the last time he had exercised; he couldn't remember.

There was a sharp knock at the door and Gatlin's voice rumbling on the other side. "You okay in there? Pants too tight?"

"I'm _fine_."

Carth shuffled to the door, reaching out to grab the handle. By now they would've unlocked it. On the other side he heard his brother's muffled voice and the girl's.

"My, he has… an attitude," the woman said.

"That's putting it mildly."

Carth opened the door, preparing a fierce, fake smile. He pretended he hadn't heard them, pretended his brother wasn't in dire need of a hiding. The pretty woman, Gatlin and a Zabrak sat around a central table in the hold, a steaming pot of something smack in the middle. Carth pulled down the thermal shirt, trying and failing to mask the little paunch at his midsection. Gatlin looked up from his food, chewing quickly and swallowing with a big, audible gulp.

"Admiral! Join us!"

Carth nodded, clearing his throat as he took the only empty spot next to the young woman. She stayed put, crowding him on the bench. Yes, he knew this type.

"Let me introduce Spryte and Akil. Spryte's a crack pilot and Akil can repair just about anything."

Carth nodded in turn as they were introduced. The woman called Spryte winked at him, but the Zabrak stared outright, giving no sign that he had heard anyone speak. Carth stifled a shiver. He didn't like the look of Akil; there was a deadness in the blank expression, a detachment that made him nervous. Carth was also perfectly sensible of the fact that "repair" was generally a criminal's euphemism for "upgrade" or "trick out." Gatlin served him a healthy portion of Spryte's cooking and Carth tucked in, chewing frantically to keep the others from noticing how completely vile the food tasted. He chewed and swallowed, chewed and swallowed, simultaneously starved and tortured by the thought of taking another bland, gluey bite.

"We should make Iziz in forty-five minutes, maybe an hour depending on landing traffic," Gatlin said, chatting amiably as he finished his meal. He wiped roughly at his mouth with the back of his sleeve. He had changed into another long, double-breasted coat with square buttons. Carth could make out the unmistakable bulge of a shoulder holster secured at the shoulders. "There's a festival this week, some kind of parade or whatever. We should be able to blend in with all the tourists and out-of-towners. Akil's got us a prime little landing spot in the industrial district. Nobody will bother us there."

"What's in Iziz?" Carth asked, only too happy for an excuse to put down his spork.

"Jedi, what else?"

"What sort of Jedi?"

Gatlin cleared his throat theatrically and Spryte and Akil quickly got the hint, silently standing and heading to different parts of the ship. When they were alone, Gatlin pushed his plate aside and leaned toward Carth, resting his elbows on the table. He looked tired, harried, as if he couldn't wait for the mission to be over and to say goodbye to Carth.

"Alright, Carth, there's something you should know," Gatlin said, leveling him with a dark look. "This Jedi we're hunting… They've been giving the Republic a hard time. Sith have been trickling into the core worlds, just a few at a time. They show up, try to put down roots, recruit a few apprentices and do as much damage as possible. Rattle local authority, intimidate officials, cause some panic, that kind of thing."

"I know all that," Carth muttered.

"Okay, but did you know that lately… Well when the Republic gets a tip about one of these little bases a team is dispatched, sometimes soldiers, sometimes Jedi from the new Order on Dantooine. But lately when they show up the Sith are already taken care of."

"Dead?" Carth asked, feeling a reluctant stab of curiosity. He knew of one important woman who could and would dispatch a couple of annoying Sith with no trouble at all. His heart rate increased and he felt hope, like a terrible pain, rising in his chest.

"No, not dead. That's the weird thing, the Sith are just… there. Tied up, left for the Republic to deal with. Sometimes there's a cheeky note or the Sith are wearing tiaras, _bloah_ like that," Gatlin explained.

"It's one Jedi doing this or several?" Carth asked, his interest piqued despite himself.

"No way to tell," Gatlin replied. "The clever bastard's shorted out the security cameras with their mind or whatever. But I've seen holos of the crime scenes, and it strikes me as just one very ballsy fellow."

"You're a detective now?" Carth asked, laughing quietly. He turned to eat again but quickly reconsidered when he noticed the food had solidified into one gelatinous mass.

"_No_, but any idiot can see that this is some kind of game. This Jedi, whoever they are, they're sending a message, playing around with the Republic."

"You won't find them," Carth said slowly, "Jedi can hide their feelings, their thoughts, their locations. What makes you think they'll come peacefully?"

"We've set up a bit of a trap," Gatlin said, rubbing his hands together. "There's no Sith presence on Onderon but we've leaked fake transmissions from Iziz hinting at one. So while the Jedi hunts invisible Sith, we hunt the Jedi."

"I don't get it, Gatlin. It sounds like they're doing you a favor."

"Yeah well, the Republic is sick of it. This Jedi's making the Republic look stupid, real stupid. It's hard to garner support from the public for a push against the Sith when there's no evidence that they're back," Gatlin said. He leaned back, sighing and pushing his hand through his hair. Carth felt uneasy, watching his brother, knowing that he did the exact same thing when he was stressed.

"But you said the Jedi is leaving them," he replied. "Isn't that proof?"

"Yeah, sure, but not proof anyone can take credit for."

"Hah. I see. So this is political. Who is it this time? Who needs a promotion?"

Gatlin checked, opening and closing his mouth a few times. Carth had hit a nerve, a big one. At once he could just imagine the conversation that got his brother on board for this mission. Credits, thousands of them, and all for making some pathetic politician look good. He knew his instincts were right; Gatlin couldn't find meaningful employment even after going legit.

"I never thought you'd sink this low," Carth said, lowering his voice. "You know these things never work out well for the peons doing the dirty work, right? There'll be inquiries, questions, and you'll be pulled through the mud right alongside your boss."

"You don't know that," Gatlin said, crossing his arms defensively. "And anyway, this is important. Wars _are_ political. Without public support there's no money and no soldiers. You of all people should know that."

"Yeah? And what's that supposed to mean?" Carth felt a dangerous flush rising in his cheeks, his skin prickling with irritation. His hands curled into fists instinctually, readying for a fight.

"Oh give me a break, Carth. You were everyone's favorite after Malak fell. The fleet couldn't get enough of you! Carth Onasi: the prodigal pilot farting rainbows and belching pure gold," Gatlin said, snorting at his brother, "That is until your special Jedi girlfriend ran out on you. Then who were you? Then who gave two shits about what you had to say? Sure, they let you stay on as Admiral but they knew you were finished. They just didn't want to hurt your precious feelings, unman you. They didn't need to. Revan took care of that."

Something cracked, tore, and Carth was flying across the table, knocking the pot of stew off the table. It crashed onto the floor alongside Carth and Gatlin, who tumbled in a mess of flailing limbs and lashing fists. Carth hit him hard on the eyebrow, rolling until he had pinned Gatlin, his elbow wedged up under his brother's chin.

"I should kill you," Carth hissed, snarling in Gatlin's face. "I should kill you for that."

"But you won't," Gatlin gurgled at him. "You don't have the balls."

"You're right. I won't. You're not worth the effort."

Carth released his stranglehold, getting clumsily to his feet. When he turned around, Spryte and Akil watched him from opposite corridors. Two pairs of blasters were aimed at his chest, charged and ready to fire.

"It's fine," Gatlin wheezed, climbing to his feet. His cheeks were red with embarrassment. "I'm fine. Put those away."

Carth stormed off, shutting himself in the medbay, ignoring the furious glares of Gatlin's henchmen. He wished he could lock it from the inside but he was alone, no one came to bother him. Outside, he could hear Gatlin talking them down.

"It's my fault," he heard his brother say, "I'm an idiot. I pushed him too far. Just… Just get ready for landing."

It didn't help. Carth didn't need to wonder where his fury came from, but he did wonder where it went so quickly. He was already calm, his breathing had returned to normal. An impotent sadness welled out of his heart and he thought—for just a moment—that his anger was really and truly gone - and not just his anger, but all of his feelings. He was utterly exhausted, sapped, as if the years of crying and grieving he had done over Revan's departure had depleted his spirit to the point of irrelevance. As he stood in the medbay, his hands perfectly still, his eyes dry, he wondered if he would ever feel again.

The dream returned to him, called to him from some shadowy corner of his subconscious. Had he not felt happiness last night? His spirit had been light, buoyant, but now he felt nothing, absolutely nothing. Carth longed to sleep, to slip into oblivion and maybe run through the jungle of dreams again, but there was no time. Gatlin would summon him soon and Carth would be forced to hunt the unhuntable.


	4. 04 Wanderer

There it was again, that strange presence looming on the horizon. Odd. He recognized this life signature, the pattern of energy this soul put out into the universe. They had worked together once, briefly, until circumstances had forced them to go their separate ways. How odd, he thought with a frown, and how timely.

He stalked the merchant quarter of Iziz, cloaked in a robe that fell in a silvery gray mist around his feet. His arm was aching, or rather, his shoulder ached and it resonated in every direction. Frowning, he opened and closed his right fist, testing the pain, trying to decode it. Perhaps it was the weather invading his joints, or a tiny tremor from the Force informing him of trouble to come.

All around him commerce reigned. Men in colorful silk scarves and tunics hawked their wares. The sun glinted and then exploded off of jewels and precious ores of all sizes and styles. Alabaster bone combs gleamed like ocean trench pearls, perfume bottles and tiny, fragile capsules of essential oils breathed their fragrant life into the dusty air. He saw beautiful, handmade earthenware to his right, endless rows of cloth sacks containing strong spices, aromatic leaves, teas and medicinal powders to his left. The air surged, filled up with so many combating smells.

He could walk among the sellers and buyers here and remember a happier time. Well, for the people of Iziz it had been worse, a scary time of upheaval and uncertainty. But for him? He had been at peace then, living in the incandescent presence of the woman he loved. And the trade quarter, the bustle and laughter and shouting and money-waving made his memories palpable, near.

But he was not there to reminisce. He had a job to do and this strange presence he had sensed was drawing closer. They might even intersect, he thought, bemused at the idea. _Agh_, the pain was back. He flexed his arm, testing its vibrant strength. The merchants ignored him as he meandered through the square; they sensed, or perhaps knew, that he would not be attracted to their foods, their baubles, their exotic treasures from all over the galaxy.

Something stopped him. He glanced to his right where a short man with a bushy silver beard hawked necklaces. His training had taught him to reject the physical, to give up material wealth in exchange for spiritual enlightenment and meaning. But that was the old training, not the new. He strode confidently to the man's tent and picked up the glint of dark silver that had caught his eye. It was an unusual and lovely necklace, deep with the vibrations of the earth. Wherever the ore had been mined, the planet had experienced many tragedies, seen decades of struggle and hardship. The necklace hummed with memory. A bright, violet jewel had been placed in the center of the necklace, tear-shaped and bright.

"How much?" he asked the merchant.

"Four hundred," the old man replied firmly.

"That's extortionate. I'll give you two."

He handed the merchant two hundred credits and palmed the necklace into his robes. She would like it. He would add it to the collection of things he had saved up for her return. He might have had the necklace for free and that old swindler nearly deserved it, but he was more than happy to pay a fair price. There was no need to abuse his power, not when the feeling of spending money was so oddly enjoyable. It was something he had missed.

The heat of midday was climbing, reaching its apex as the surface of the planet roasted and endured. There was a little time yet before he needed to be on his way. The sun beating down on the back of his neck, piercing the anonymity of his hooded robe, drove him inside. He stepped off the unpaved road into a discrete _matsham_. The merchant quarter was filled with these little cantinas drilled into the sides of the white plaster buildings. It looked more like a human-sized _morril_ hill than a shop.

Inside it was cool and fragrant. Iziz natives sprawled out on cushions around low tables, smoking water pipes and blowing horrok lily-scented smoke over their cups of iced tea. He took a table at the window and wedged himself into a corner. Without prompting, a young girl dressed in a simple tan-colored robe and brown slippers padded over to him. She made a little bow, her nut-brown hair drifting across her big, childlike eyes.

"A pipe," he said. "Tea, a big one, iced, and rose tobacco please. And a plate of whatever you've got today."

The girl bowed again and took the money he offered her. She seemed to notice the generous tip and hurried her stride. He settled back into the pillows, sighing as a feeling of serene pleasure overtook him. This was a time to savor, the electric moment before strife. With that fascinating and odd life presence on the horizon he had a feeling his afternoon would be very eventful. While he waited for the girl to return, he looked around at the other patrons. They spoke in hushed tones, nodding gravely over the long, snaking hoses of their water pipes, their noses alight with the white curls of smoke.

The man sitting near the kitchen entrance had just come from his mistress's home. He was worried that his wife would smell his lover on his collar. The young boy reclining near the door eating a large pastry was anxious too, nervous that his mother would catch him skipping out on school. Almost all of them worried about something – a wife, a lover, a child. He wondered if they could see on his face that he had no anxieties whatsoever, that his destiny had led him to a place of profound tranquility, the kind of harmony ordinary people only dreamed of.

The girl returned, placing a plate of curried bean paste and pickled lime chilies next to the water pipe. She loaded the pipe, deftly pressing the rose-flavored tobacco into the silver canister. Then she scurried away and returned with his tea. He watched the condensation slip down the sides of the tall glass as the girl lit the coal on the pipe, bowed, and disappeared.

He pulled out the necklace he had bought as he began to puff on the pipe. He ran his thumb over the smooth, silken jewel and watched it wink back at him. Yes, it was a good day, a pleasant morning, and soon it would become so very interesting.


	5. 05 Savior

"I've got a bad feeling about this."

Carth looked over at Spryte, surprised, and stifled a laugh. They waited together for the landing ramp to drop and for Akil and Gatlin to finish scrambling the ship's identification codes. The ship still resonated with the stuffy cold of deep space, but Carth knew that outside they would have to combat the brutal heat of Onderon's climate.

"Maybe you should tell Gatlin," Carth replied. "He's the boss around here. Inexplicably."

"He's not so bad," she said, nudging him with her elbow. Carth stiffened, fighting back the desire to inch away from her. "And neither am I."

"Sorry," Carth said, not meaning it. "I'm the prisoner, remember?"

"Only because you want to be."

"I can't help it," he said. "This just seems like a bit of a circus. Do you really think you can stop a Jedi?"

"Got something better to do?"

Carth didn't reply. He could practically feel the smug satisfaction radiating off of Spryte as they stood waiting. Finally, after what felt like a lifetime, Gatlin and Akil arrived, both of them strapping last minute weaponry to the holsters secured beneath their clothing. Both of them carried enough heat to be a walking, one-man armory. Carth noted that Spryte had no obvious weapons on her person, just the skin tight cat suit and disarming eyes which—he thought with a grin—were perhaps more dangerous than a blaster rifle.

"I think we're ready," Gatlin said, straightening up and pulling his coat lapels closed. Akil nodded, silent as always. "Hit the release."

Akil lowered the ramp and, with Gatlin going first, they filed out into the hot Onderon sun. At once Carth was glad for the light clothing Gatlin had given him. The heat was oppressive, soaking into the sand until the ground itself felt like molten rock. A docking attendant approached Gatlin, detaining him for a moment while he verified their codes. The security here was lax, Carth noted, and the cameras and automated droids looked in dire need of repair, hanging onto the walls of the docking pens by threadbare wires.

The attendant waved them away and the com hidden in Gatlins coat crackled to life.

"Captain: The package has been spotted. Repeat, the package has been spotted. Iziz mercantile district, Sho-Zo'war Temple."

"Kantu? You've got to be kidding me," Carth said as the come fizzled into silence.

"What about him?" Gatlin asked, leading the team away from the ship and toward the tall, double bay doors guarding the landing pad. The attendant let them out, nodding to Gatlin as they passed beneath the high metal archway.

"He was just coming up through the ranks when I made admiral," Carth muttered darkly. "He always was an ambitious little worm."

"That ambitious little worm is going to drown us in cash," Gatlin replied. "You can bitch about him all you want later, when I'm lying on a bed made of credits. Now shut up and focus. We need to be ready for this Jedi. Any advice before the shit hits the fan?"

"Yeah," Carth said, smiling, "Turn back now while you still can."

"Now you're making me wonder how you ever made admiral," Spryte interjected, striding alongside Carth, her long legs easily matching his stride. They turned down an alley, away from the industrial quarter, west. "I thought a man like you would be ready to face down anything and anyone." She laughed at him, a hard, rasping sound. "One wittle Jedi making you sweat?"

"You forget: I had help, and no offense but they were better equipped."

"Oh we've got a few tricks up our sleeves," Spryte replied.

"I should hope so." Carth felt a distinct whisper of fear creeping up his spine. He couldn't remember the last time had battled a Jedi in face to face combat. "This Jedi has evaded the Republic before and chances are good they'll be ready for us. Do you even know what they look like?"

"No," Gatlin said, keeping up a brisk pace. "But I'll know it when I see them."

The group fell silent as they traveled through Iziz. It was broad daylight, not the best time for a melee assault. Carth felt naked without a blaster, _his_ blaster, and wondered when exactly his brother would give him something to defend himself with. He felt uncomfortable and awkward in his brother's clothes, shuffling around like an impostor. In comparison to Gatlin in his long, sweeping coat, hidden arsenal of countless blasters and thundering boots, Carth felt like a child playing dress-up.

"The Republic's been sending scrambled Sith messages from the temple location for the last two days. Let's hope that's enough bait for our intrepid little Jedi," Gatlin said, checking the tiny digital map on his wristwatch. "We're coming up on the merch district."

The change was instantaneous. The gritty, mud-blasted buildings of the industrial quarter fell away as pristine white plaster huts and low buildings with delicate blue mosaic inlays rose up in a dizzying sprawl. The air, which was still unpleasantly hot, was now heavy with spice and perfume, a bewildering soup of powerful scents all vying for dominance in Carth's nose. The sound was deafening, merchants screaming like angry birds, shrieking their wares, their prices, their reputation directly into his ear. It was claustrophobic, a broad street that felt narrow from the congestion of foot traffic, browsing shoppers and merchant stalls. He felt at once alive and deadened by the influx of sensation, wandering in a heady, spicy fog.

"Tooth ache, back ache, migraine, I cure it all! Step over here, step over here, young man!"

"Lovely lady? Lovely lady at home you want to surprise? I have just the thing! Here, right here!"

"Beans! Dried, freeze dried, spiced, bleached, roasted and powdered!"

"You okay?" Spryte asked, nudging Carth.

"Yeah, it's just overwhelming."

"Makes Nar Shadaa look like a playground, doesn't it?"

"Sure," Carth replied, "a sleazy, drug-riddled, piss-soaked playground, but yeah."

Spryte laughed, nodding. She looked in her element, striding confidently through the blur of people with a serenely confident expression.

"Keep sharp," Gatlin said, throwing a sharp look over his shoulder, his silver eye patch glinting in the relentless sun. "It's easy to get lost here."

Carth kept pace, close on his brother's heels, watching the head of sandy curls bobbing as Gatlin elbowed his way forward at the helm. They blended in well, just another group of tourists catching the marvelous sights to see in Iziz. Nobody gave them a second glance. Carth tried to keep his shoulders relaxed, his posture easy, worried that someone in the crowd would recognize him. But they waded through the crowded street unchallenged.

They turned right onto an even busier avenue. Carth struggled to keep calm, irritated by the shouting of the merchants and the babbling of the crowd. He wanted silence, peace, but there was only constant stimulation. He felt a gentle hand on his elbow and found that Spryte was guiding him, not pulling him along exactly but helping him stay alert. A part of him wanted to shrug her off and yet he was grateful for the little reassuring pressure on his arm.

A thin white spire loomed ahead, stabbing upward like a giant and pale hand pointing at the cloudless sky. Gatlin quickened his pace, shouldering people aside, grunting as the flow of foot traffic worked against him. Carth felt his nerves prickle to life, his soldier's intuition telling him that danger was close at hand. He felt something hard being pressed into his hands and found that Spryte was offering him a blaster. Discretely, he tucked it inside his jacket, trying to keep a firm grasp on it without drawing attention to his awkward stance. It was a good blaster, well-balanced, with a custom grip.

"When we get inside," she told him in a whisper, "You're the boss. You're the one who knows what we're facing here. Got it?"

"Is that you talking or my brother?"

"Both."

The crowd thinned as they reached the temple. A few shoppers sat on the wide, shallow steps leading up to the doors, fanning themselves with their fingers as they took a short break. The sandy, pebbly ground fell away, revealing an intricately tiled walkway leading to the temple doors. The tiles were cracked and faded and Carth realized as they climbed the stairs that the temple had been abandoned. Graffiti scrawled across one of the doors declared: _FRAK_ and the stained glass windows had been broken, covered up hastily with thin wooden slats.

He had to admit, it was the perfect hide out for a Sith operation. It was a central location but empty. Undoubtedly there would be a spacious basement, a kitchen and enough superstition surrounding it to keep curious bystanders away, perfect for hiding in plain sight. He wondered if their target waited inside. It was times like this that he wished he had some control over the Force, maybe then he wouldn't feel so damn nervous. The old Carth would be ready to charge inside, blaster at the ready, daring death with the bold fearlessness of a born soldier, but this Carth… He felt tired, unprepared, worn ragged by months of hard drinking and hopeless nights.

They circled the temple, Gatlin leading them toward a back entrance. The grounds of the temple were overgrown, choked with weeds and low, needled bushes. The back of the temple was in even worse shape, overtaken by vines and graffiti. A short staircase led to a pair of tall, narrow doors. The right-hand door looked as if it had been recently tampered with. As Gatlin eased open the door, Carth felt a stab of resentment. How dare his brother force this on him? How dare he shove Carth into a dangerous situation and all for what? A few thousand credits? He felt suddenly sick, dizzy. Spryte steadied his arm, shaking him.

"Come on, Carth. We need you now."

Inside it was cool, dark. The temple was one enormous room, a rotunda with a central, raised altar and a series of steps leading up to it. All around, against the wall, were stepped rows of arena seating. Everything was painted a cool, flat blue. Overhead, a stained glass skylight let in the glaring afternoon sun, creating a wan pattern on the ground of turquoise and white squares. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the darkness; the only light came from above, in the ceiling, leaving the outer rim of the rotunda in shadow.

Nobody moved. For a moment, nothing happened and Carth thought that maybe the Jedi hadn't come, that they had seen through the trap and stayed away. But then there was a quick, scraping noise and Gatlin leapt forward, his blasters firing toward the raised dais at the center of the rotunda. A thick layer of dust exploded into the air, musty and dry. Carth felt the old familiar surge of his training stirring in his gut, his right arm springing to life as he aimed his blaster at just a blur of black robes.

Their fire was returned, volleyed back by a burst of neon blue light. It was a lightsaber, a saber so bright Carth felt his eyes squint against its power. He dove to the right, rolling, feeling his joints protest. With a thud, he landed behind a short, stone pew. He was out of breath as he peered from the safe vantage point at the Jedi. It was difficult to make out their form as their lightsaber whirled, deflecting the blaster fire from Gatlin and Akil. Spryte had disappeared altogether. Carth briefly considered firing at the Jedi but knew at once it was useless; they were alert now and ready to fight. It would take more than a few well-aimed blaster bolts to disarm them.

Then he saw Spryte; she had crept around the outside of the rotunda until she was directly behind the Jedi. In a flash, she struck, dashing and leaping into a forward flip before throwing something at the ground. A plume of smoke went up, showering her and the Jedi in sparks. It was a grenade of some sort but she had miscalculated and the Jedi had dodged, avoiding the main blast. Spryte recovered only to be kicked swiftly in the jugular. She flew backward, slamming against the wall, a pile of debris shattering around her as she fell to the floor.

"Damnit," he heard Gatlin grunt. Akil continued firing, but it was no use, the bolts simply came back over their heads. "You're outnumbered!"

Carth couldn't help it, he began to chuckle, amused by his brother's desperation. "What did I tell you?" he called to Gatlin.

"Shut up."

One choked groan came from the other side of the rotunda, where the Jedi had picked up Spryte with an invisible fist. Spryte hovered in midair, drifting eerily in the pale cloud of dust above the debris and then she was flying, hurled across the room toward them. Carth watched, mouth-open, as the woman soared, thrown with such force that he knew the inevitable collision would snap her spine like a brittle twig. He stared, preparing for the awful sound, the terrible moment of death, but it never came. She stopped just shy of the stone pew he hid behind, hesitating before dropping gently and safely to the floor. The blaster fire went quiet. Perplexed, Carth watched as another Jedi appeared, a man in a misty gray robe. His lightsabers sparkled to life, two short green sabers held in an agile, backhanded stance. He had saved Spryte and now he was fighting the black-robed figure.

The man in gray sparred with her, their sabers throwing showers of green and blue sparks across the dais. Carth saw then that the black-robed figure was petite, small even when seen in contrast to the gray-robed man. They were almost evenly matched, but the figure in gray prevailed, countering so swiftly and accurately that the black-robed Jedi fell back, losing their footing. Before they could tumble off the altar, the man in gray caught them, lifting them easily up and onto their feet.

There was something oddly familiar about the man in gray, his posture, his aura, his weapons. Carth stood as if in a trance, and stepped over the stone pew. As he walked slowly down the aisle toward the dais, the man in gray snapped his fingers, trapping the other Jedi in a hazy blue force field. Vaguely, Carth could hear his brother shouting at him, demanding that he come back, stop, watch out. But Carth felt an implicit trust with the man in gray, a pact long-ago formed and stored secretly in the cobwebbed corners of his mind.

As he approached the dais the sun emerged from behind a bank of clouds and the skylight above them shimmered and ignited, the patterns of light on the floor glowing as the gray figure turned to face him. Carth felt his heart grow heavy and then light, a confusing mixture of awe and fear robbing him of breath. He felt like himself and yet not himself.

Looming over him, haloed in golden light, Carth came to a reverent stop, gazing up at their deliverance. He was large, towering, of immense muscular strength visible even beneath his voluminous robes. His face, Carth thought with a jolt, was splendidly beautiful, like a statue's, smooth and pale and serenely noble. He had a wide, gentle mouth that was fixed into a line of supreme determination and his eyes were sincere and trusting. Blue, deep-ocean blue. His powerful arms were at rest, the lightsabers glowing and snapping in the dusty silence.

"Admiral Onasi," he said in an aristocratic, even voice. "It's good to see you again."


	6. 06 Deceivers

"Who in the hell is this?"

Carth turned to find his brother ambling down the aisle toward them, his blasters still out and at the ready. Carth raised a hand in placation, shooting his brother a mean, disappointed look. The gray-robed figure dropped down to stand beside him, bringing with him the smell of dark, lush roses and smoke. He put a heavy hand on Carth's shoulder and shook his head.

"It's alright," he told Gatlin gently. "I know your brother Carth. I do not seek to harm him."

Through the fabric of his jacket and shirt, Carth could feel the pulsing, radiating strength of the Jedi. It was a familiar touch, a touch not unlike Revan's. Carth's sadness was short-lived as the man shook back his head and the hood fell away, revealing soft waves of sunflower yellow hair. When they had known each other before the man had worn his hair shorter. His jaw was peppered with rust brown stubble, defining the line of his strong jaw.

The Jedi extended his right hand to Gatlin who, after a moment's hesitation, took it. Carth noted that the Jedi wore only one glove, a fitted fawn-colored leather glove over his right hand.

"My name is Mical," the Jedi said, by way of introduction. "And you are free to take that young woman as your prisoner."

Carth saw the air in front of him shimmer, as if a heat wave had suddenly risen out of the ground. Spryte had recovered from her fall and pushed roughly past Mical, stomping up the stairs of the dais. "You're damn right we are." She pulled something round and slender out of her back pocket and snapped it into place around the frozen Jedi's neck. A force-inhibiting collar.

"You took quite a tumble," Mical observed, turning to look at Spryte. Carth thought he detected a note of annoyance in the Jedi's voice, but his impassive face revealed nothing. Mical waved his gloved hand and a patina of sparkling waves rose up around Spryte. She shivered, the scratches and bruises on her cheeks healing visibly before their eyes.

"Thanks," Carth said, smiling wanly, "For stepping in."

"It is the duty of all men to see justice done," Mical replied. "I was merely fulfilling that duty."

"Is there something we can do?" Gatlin asked, watching Spryte pull the Jedi down off the dais. "You know, like payment or something?"

"Payment is not necessary," Mical said. "I ask only that you do not harm this young woman and that you deliver me to Coruscant, if that is not too much trouble."

"Sure," Gatlin said, nodding emphatically, "No problem, it's right on the way."

"Excellent."

Spryte wrangled the Jedi down to their level, holding the girl by the shoulders. Dazed, the black-robed young woman stared around at them, confused and disoriented.

"I've stunned her for the time being," Mical explained, smiling sadly at the girl in black. "She shouldn't be any trouble. However, I would take great care with her; when the stun wears off she will be angry and confused, not the sort of Jedi one would want to deal with."

"Noted," Gatlin said shortly. He made a quick hand motion to Spryte and she marched the Jedi away, up the stairs towards the back exit. Akil stared, stone-faced, at Carth and Mical, his mouth downturned at the corners. Carth stared back, determined not be intimidated by the aloof Zabrak.

Akil had arranged for a speeder taxi to meet them at the temple. They rode back to the landing pad in silence, Carth sitting beside Mical in the back of the taxi. His mind reeled with questions, first and foremost what Mical was doing there and how he had known to intervene. But there were other questions, questions about the Jedi, about where one might find a missing former Sith Lord that made his skin prickle with heat.

"In good time," Mical whispered to him, "all your questions will be answered."

They arrived at the landing pad ten minutes later, making good time with the Iziz native helming the taxi. He had jostled them considerably, zooming in and out of taxi and foot traffic with the reckless suicidal driving skills of someone long-versed in the taxi driving profession. Akil paid him generously and helped Spryte unload the Jedi, whose head hung limp on her shoulders as they marched her into the ship.

Gatlin stood apart, watching as Mical boarded. Carth felt acutely embarrassed by his brother's open mistrust of the Jedi; Mical had saved them, undoubtedly they would have been killed without his intervention, and yet not one of them besides Carth had thought to thank him. He ignored Gatlin's gaze, following Akil and Spryte as they brought the prisoner—under Mical's watchful supervision—to the brig. They secured her to the electrical shackles on the wall and double-checked her force-inhibiting collar. Akil stalked off and Spryte made sure to "accidentally" cuff the Jedi girl across the face before she left. Carth watched the figure strapped to the wall and wondered if she would be alright; when they reached space it would be freezing in the empty brig.

"I'll look after her," Mical told him, watching Spryte go with a cold stare. He steered Carth out of the brig and down the hall. "In fact, I'll ask the captain if I might bring her to the 'fresher. She's absolutely filthy and she will need warmer clothes. Could you arrange some?"

Carth nodded, strangely intimidated by Mical's calm, firm directions. Carth was Mical's senior in years and had once, long ago, been his boss, but this was not the same Mical, not the shy, eager young man he had watched climbing through the ranks of the Republic bureaucracy. He was confident, assured of his own power and Carth couldn't help but feel that Mical was now somehow older than him, wiser. The questions bubbled up again but he quelled the urge to hound the Jedi; as he had said, there would be time for that later.

He went in search of clothing. Spryte was unhelpful, claiming that she would rather eat a live gizka than loan that "filthy witch" her clothing. Akil wasn't even an option. Carth found Gatlin in the cockpit arranging their flight to Coruscant.

"You might have thanked him," Carth said.

"Hello to you too, Carth."

"I knew you were a thief and a liar, I didn't know you were a complete asshole," Carth said, shaking his head, feeling for once like the older brother he was. "We wouldn't be alive without his help."

"I'm taking him to Coruscant," Gatlin replied, holding his ground. He had shucked his coat and stood now in his shirtsleeves and holsters, the fabric of the shirt straining against his barrel chest. "And that's plenty. If you have a problem with the way I run my ship then you're free to go."

"Oh I'm free now? Since when?"

"Since I don't need you," Gatlin said, laughing merrily at Carth's outraged expression. "We've got the Jedi, we've completed the mission and we don't need you anymore. It's obvious now we never needed you to begin with. So just holler when you want us to drop your useless ass off. I'll forward the credits to your account next week."

"You do that," Carth said. He nearly turned to stomp away but stopped himself, knowing he had come for a reason. "The prisoner needs some clothes. She'll freeze to death in the brig."

"Ask Spryte."

"I did. She was her usual charming self."

"Fine, there's a trunk under my bed. It's unlocked. Take whatever you need from the bottom of the pile. It's clean enough."

Carth left without another word. He found Gatlin's trunk and, with Akil breathing down his neck, he searched through the contents until he found a thick woven sweater, a pair of heavy thermal winter tights and a rolled up pair of boot socks. With a black look in Akil's direction, he left the sleeping quarters and went in search of Mical. Soft hisses, whirs and clicks led him to the medical bay. Carth stopped short of the door, nearly dropping the pile of clothing in his arms.

Mical stood with his back to Carth, stripped bare to the waist, wearing only his loose gray Jedi pants and wide belt. To his right was the medical droid, reactivated, its needle-like arms hard at work on Mical. Carth gaped, mesmerized by the bizarre sight; Mical's entire right arm was gone, replaced by a robotic contraption so intricate and detailed that it mimicked perfectly the muscles and tendons of a human arm. Carth felt a little sick, noticing that the apparatus had been fused to the living tissue at the bony ridge on Mical's shoulder. A small portion of his bone was visible, capped with a metal filling to hold the bulk of the arm in place. He flexed his hand and wrist as the droid worked, testing the responses of the steel tendons. All up and down the arm a chain reaction occurred, his movements sending ripples in the mechanisms up to the juncture of his bicep.

The work was so fine, so detailed that the ropey cords of his neck and the broad, tightly muscled landscape of his back worked seamlessly into the shape of the arm, so natural that it might have been part of him from birth. Carth had seen hands and feet and joints replaced, all soldiers had seen such things, but this was like nothing he'd ever laid eyes on.

"Lust."

"I'm sorry?" Carth stammered, frozen to the floor.

"You want to know how I lost my arm. It was lust."

"Oh. I don't want to pry, it's just… I can't imagine _surviving_ after a wound like that." Carth took a few steps closer, morbidly curious. Up close the robotic arm was even more impressive, a dizzying labyrinth of miniscule hammers and slides.

"I nearly didn't," Mical said with a good-natured laugh. For a moment he was silent and Carth wondered if he should prompt him to go on. Mical stretched his palm, staring intently at it. Then he said quietly, "I don't suppose in your travels you ever met a man called Atton Rand?"

"Rand? No, I don't think so."

"He was one of my companions aboard the _Ebon Hawk_. We traveled with the Exile, and with the betrayer, Kreia," he said. Carth heard the unmistakable tenderness in his voice. He had heard himself use that very same tone many times before. "We followed the Exile to the end, to Malachor. Rand was… Well he was a bit of a rival. We both loved the Exile, he aggressively so. That forsaken place destroyed what little was left of his control. He had a great darkness inside of him and his lust, his infatuation, led him to hate."

"He did this to you?" Carth asked.

"It's funny. I thought I could bargain with him. He was always strong with a lightsaber but his mind… His mind was not nearly as strong. I remember telling him I didn't want to fight, that my feelings for the Exile were different than his. They weren't, not really, but I thought it would calm him. I'll never forget it; he looked at me with those horrible dead eyes and said: I don't care. I just want you to die."

"But you defeated him? Even after losing… that?" He nodded toward Mical's arm.

"In a way," he replied. "The hatred, the lust had made him more powerful in some respects but he was weak at heart, sick and poisoned. I infiltrated his mind; I simply showed him his own actions as if in a mirror. I suggested what his love, the Exile, would do when she found me. In that moment he realized his great error and I saw my chance, my opening."

"And then you… You…"

"Killed him? Your mind leaps to dark ideas, Carth. No, I did not kill him. I would not. I couldn't," he said, frowning a little. He waved the droid away and turned to face Carth. For a flashing instant, Carth imagined fighting this man, seeing his hulking frame coming toward him with his terrible robotic arm gripping a lightsaber. He swallowed hard.

Mical continued. "As evil as he was, as cruel as he had become, he had taught me a valuable lesson. For some time I had believed my love was too simple, too innocent to be of any value, that the Exile deserved someone like Rand, someone who wore their lust like a suit of armor. I realized then that I was wrong, that a pure love would always triumph and that I had nothing to fear."

"You weren't angry?" Carth asked, incredulous. "I mean… If someone did that to me, I'm not sure I could keep my head."

"It is inconvenient," Mical said mildly, looking down as he flexed his metal bicep, "But that moment changed my life. I paid a price, certainly, but I would've sacrificed much more if it meant proving myself to her. Rand had played his final move and he showed himself to be the weaker of us. My pain was also my revelation. My pain was his undoing."

Carth fell silent, dumbstruck. He didn't like imagining himself in a situation like that. He could imagine sacrificing any number of things for Revan, but if someone had tried to fight him for Revan's affection, he couldn't be responsible for his actions. His jaw tightened, hardening at the mere idea of competing over her.

"Why kill a man who has been brought to the depths of despair?" Mical added quietly. "It took all my strength to keep from dying then and there. I pulled myself out of that pool of blood, my own blood, and as he languished, destroyed by his selfish act, I knocked him unconscious and bound him. I delivered him to the Jedi Order, trussed up like a swine for the slaughter. What they did to him for his past crimes, of which there were many, I neither know nor care. Above all, it was not for me to decide."

"Sounds heroic," Carth said, adding a bitter laugh.

"It wasn't," Mical replied. "It was simply what had to be done. My arm was destroyed and the tissue was dead, there was too much damage to reattach it. A friend built this arm for me." He stopped, smiling fondly at the memory. "I was very lucky to survive Malachor and lucky that enough of my shoulder remained to make this apparatus possible."

"And now you're hunting Jedi? Isn't that sort of strange?" Carth asked.

"Hunting? What do you mean?" Mical asked, his head falling to the side. In the low, yellow light his arm glinted with a menacing mechanical gleam. The tiny reactors and silver sinews worked in his shoulder, sliding side to side like a twitching muscle. Carth looked at the Jedi's eyes and shuddered at what he saw, at the raw power that lived there, like two pulsing slivers of ion fire. Then Mical laughed, a bright, amused laugh.

"I'm not here to arrest her, Carth. I'm here to recruit her." The Jedi reached for his robe and shrugged it on, replacing the fawn colored glove over his silver hand. It suddenly dawned on Carth that something was wrong, he frowned, backing away slightly.

"I'm sorry to do this, Carth. I really, truly am."

Carth reached for a blaster that wasn't there. His mind exploded in pain and he reeled back, dropping the clothing and slamming into the corridor wall. He slid slowly to the floor, guided by Mical's outstretched hand. Carth stared up at the Jedi, his brain on fire, his heart pounding, and pleaded for mercy, pleaded with his tear-streaked eyes.


	7. 07 Strangers

Carth woke to a familiar sight. He had been locked in the med bay. Again. He sighed, sitting up and groping his head. Oddly enough, he felt fine, refreshed even. He was happy to find that he was not only still alive, but also in one piece. Nothing was bleeding or bruised, nothing felt out of the ordinary at all.

He swung his legs off the cot and jumped down, shuffling over to the door. He decided to try it, aware that he was probably locked in and doomed to suffer whatever fate Mical cooked up. A searing pang of anger rippled through his chest. He had been betrayed. He should have known better; it was all just too good to be true.

With a grunt, he heaved against the door. It opened hard into the corridor and he swung out, nearly tumbling to the ground with the force of the momentum. Strange, he thought, standing in the hallway and gazing around, why hadn't he locked the door?

Carth headed in the direction of the cockpit but stopped fast when he passed by the sleeping quarters. Lined up like little ducks in a row were Gatlin, Spryte and Akil, all three of them bound hands and feet and lying on the floor. They slept--or had been stunned--and Carth stifled a laugh. They looked absurd, like children strapped down for mandatory naptime.

"Carth, please don't take this personally," Mical said. Carth turned to find the Jedi standing in the hallway behind him, his arms crossed over his chest. "It's not that I dislike your brother… It's just…"

"That you don't trust him?"

"Precisely."

"That makes two of us."

"I apologize," Mical said, inclining his head in a subtle bow. "But I needed time to incapacitate your brother and his crew. I didn't want you to experience a conflict of interest. I thought it better to stun you. If your brother ever asks, you weren't part of it."

"You didn't have to do that," Carth said, chuckling. "I don't care what Gatlin thinks of me."

"All the same. He _is_ your brother."

"And the prisoner?" Carth asked. "Your recruit?"

"She's well," Mical replied. "I hope you know by now we won't be going to Coruscant."

"I guessed as much."

Mical nodded, coming to stand beside him. They walked to the main hold and Mical sat down on one of the benches, resting his elbow on the table. "I'm afraid I can't tell you where exactly we're going. It's a secret. But I can tell you that you will come to no harm and that at your request, you will be shuttled to whatever planet you desire."

"But?" Carth asked, sensing more. Mical nodded, smiling at him approvingly.

"_But_, if you would like to stay on I think you will find our destination rewarding. This prisoner, this Jedi, is more precious than you could know," Mical told him gravely. "It is a burden to become her protector, but I would gladly share that honor with you if you so choose."

"Her protector?" Carth asked. "Whoa, hey, I haven't even met her."

"Don't decide now," Mical said, standing again. He turned toward the cockpit, looking over his shoulder at Carth with an unreadable expression. "You will know what is right. Soon."

Carth watched him go, frozen in a confused silence. He didn't want to be anyone's protector; he just wanted to go home. Maybe this little adventure was what he needed all along. He felt better, more alive and present, but sad still, as if he had secretly hoped his brother had been hunting Revan. No, not secretly hoped, outwardly, desperately hoped. He turned and wandered around the hold, turning a slow circle around the table. A soft, clattering noise drew his attention and he followed the sound down a corridor to the storage hold.

He stopped in the doorway, watching as the young Jedi—facing away from him--tipped upside down onto her right hand, balancing in a handstand, her other arm out at a ninety degree angle for balance. She stayed that way, swaying only a little, her knees slightly bent. After a moment, Gatlin's long, wooly shirt came free, falling down around her head. Carth knew he should go, that staring at the sleekly muscled back of a young woman he had never met was weird and inappropriate, but he couldn't help it, he was jarred by the simple beauty of her back. A woman's naked back. When was the last time he had even seen that?

The shirt had broken her concentration and she wavered and then leapt backward into a standing position. The shirt fell quickly back into place, but Carth knew two things: He had seen the quickest flash of her bare chest and he was caught staring, red-handed.

"Um, oh, I -- " he stammered, turning to go, his face flaming. "Sorry."

"Classy."

"I'm sorry," Carth said. "I didn't… I didn't want to…"

"You're an Admiral? Like an Admiral of the _Starfleet_ or like the Admiral of peeping Toms?"

Carth tried to extricate himself from the doorframe and his horrifying shame, but he was trapped, stuck in place, his limbs glued, frozen. She had trapped him in a web-like haze of purple sparkles, a force field.

"Not so fast, creep," she said, coming up behind him.

_I'm sorry_, he tried to say, _I'm not a creep, I promise!_ But his mouth wouldn't move; it was stuck firmly into place as if his tongue had been nailed to the roof of his mouth. His nose, however, was still working and he could smell the light, dusty scent of her skin, like a library or the way his kitchen had smelled on Telos as a boy, fragrant with sunshine and rain. He felt her strong little hands on his shoulder and she spun him around to face her. He had no choice but to stare down at her as she scowled right in his face.

She was short, petite, her head barely reaching his shoulders and she was young, no older than twenty-five. Her eyes were pale gray-blue, like the inside of a stone. Her ash-blonde hair was still damp from the 'fresher, falling in choppy strands across her eyes. A livid red and purple bruise had blossomed across the sharp line of her cheekbone where Spryte had hit her.

If Mical was a pillar of serenity and stillness, this Jedi was a crackling fist of energy, charged, electrified with a kind of willful spirit that made Carth quake inwardly. Her eyes spit fire, her pert rosebud mouth tightened into an unwavering line.

This was not the sort of first impression he liked to make.

He wondered if perhaps he was shortly to be meeting the business end of her lightsaber, but she produced no weapon. Instead, her fingers worked at the edge of his shirt and then gripped the collar of his jacket. She pulled, yanking the jacket down his arms roughly, spinning him to pull the sleeves free. Carth felt a sinking feeling in his stomach, a feeling not unlike the worst half hour of a vicious hangover. He had spent happier moments bent over a toilet expelling the result of a night's binging.

The Jedi took hold of his shoulders and turned him again to face her. She gripped the edges of his shirt and tore it upward, jerking his arms over his head so that she could pull it completely free of his hands. She lowered his arms and took a step back. The storage room was freezing, less than freezing, a subzero refrigerator cold enough to chill the snot hard to your lip. Carth stood, stunned, humiliated, and fuming at this stupid girl who had mistaken his curiosity for something sinister. She smiled at her handy work, analyzing his bare chest from a few feet off. In earlier days he could stand in front of a woman with his shirt off and feel twenty feet tall but now, with his age and his bad habits catching up with him…

"Not bad, gramps," she said, clapping half-heartedly. "But I'd lay off the beer."

Then he was free, the force field evaporating around him and he stumbled forward. He stood up straight, defying her to look at him and then snatched his shirt and jacket from the floor. The anger in his chest surged upward until he felt an important safety cord snap in his brain. He lunged forward, stopping inches from her face. She didn't flinch, but he saw the little crackle of alarm in her big gray eyes. He yanked the shirt over his head and pointed an accusing finger in her face, breathing down at her from his considerable height. She looked young, fragile, wearing Gatlin's too-big sweater and the thermal tights, like a girl dressing up in her father's clothes.

"You're not making many friends around here," he said.

"Fair is fair."

"I didn't mean to catch you like that," Carth said, refusing to back off. "It was an accident."

"Alright," she said quietly, shrugging her slim shoulders. She extended her hand and begrudgingly, Carth took it. It was cold in his grip and he felt a pang of regret. She shook his hand resolutely. "Next time you knock first and I'll get my hands on a bra. Sound good?"

"It's a deal."

"Haven," she said, letting go of his hand. "And you're Carth."

"Yes," he said, a little embarrassed by the way she said his name. Her earnestness, her big, beguiling smile was making him feel strange in his own skin. "I'm Carth."

"I'm sorry if I hurt your friend," she said, nodding to the door. It took him a minute to realize she was referring to Spryte.

"Oh," he said laughing, "She's not my friend."

"Then I'm not sorry," Haven said, amending her apology with a disarming little shrug. "You're not a Jedi," she observed.

"No, I'm a soldier."

"But you _could_ be a Jedi," she said simply, her eyes sparkling with curiosity as she gazed up at him. "Is that why you're coming with us?"

"I haven't decided yet," Carth said, uneasy. "And I'm not going to be a Jedi. That's not really my thing."

"Are you hungry?" she asked, pushing past him and going to the door.

"I—Yeah, I suppose I am," he said, following slowly, keeping his distance.

Haven strode out of the storage hold, padding down the corridor in her bare feet. _Where are the socks I found for you? _Carth wondered, imagining that her feet must be icy with cold. She seemed to pause and Carth chided himself silently, remembering that in the presence of Jedi it was foolish to keep his thoughts hidden. Still, she didn't remark on his curiosity and she took off again down the corridor, marching toward the mess as if she owned the ship and always had.

When they reached the mess Carth stood to the side and watched her go directly to a small, canvas bag on the counter. It hadn't been there before. It was black, the same rough, tattered material as the robe she had worn. He covered his mouth, coughing to hide a sudden fit of chuckles. The idea that Gatlin, Akil and Spryte had nearly been leveled by this pretty little Jedi with her pixie face and big, lovely eyes was almost too funny to bear.

"I hope you like your food spicy," she said, pulling out a number of glass canisters from the canvas bag. Carth observed her going to the small, silver food storage bin. She sorted through the ingredients quickly, pulling out boxes and jars and bags. Carth had never learned to cook. He could reheat an army ration and he could dump a can of freeze-dried soup into a reconstitutor, but that was about the long and short of his culinary expertise.

Haven worked quickly, measuring with her fingers, flitting between the storage bin and the enormous ion range built into the wall. She chopped a fennel root with amazing speed, the knife blurring as she maneuvered the razor sharp blade up and down. Suddenly, the thought of his brother being outclassed by this nimble little thing was not so surprising. She handled a blade like an artist handled a paintbrush.

"You're good at this," Carth said, leaning against a stainless steel cabinet. She didn't look at him as she managed several different steel pots on the range. She tapped her pink toes on the floor impatiently, stirring now and again.

"When you live on the street you pick stuff up," she said amiably. With her pinky finger she tasted something simmering on the range. She made a soft noise of pleasure and then sprinkled a few more magenta flakes of something into the pot. "I've looked after myself since I was eight."

"And your parents?" he asked.

"They weren't much of anything," Haven replied. For the first time, Carth sensed a crack in her armor. "I remember, I was eight and doing really well at school. The teacher wanted to come to my house and talk to my parents about having me transferred up a few grades. I was learning things too fast, languages, astronomy, and she was worried I'd get bored. When she showed up my parents were passed out on Roon Spice. I shoved them into the back room and locked the door," she paused, laughing bitterly. "I bribed their spice dealer to pose as my dad. He met with my teacher and told her yes, fine, move Haven up a few grades. I'd never been so humiliated in my life."

Carth could see the pieces fitting together; the story made sense. Her hair was shorn short on the sides, close to the scalp, and grown longer on top, a style popular with street kids he had seen on Nar Shadaa. It was a subculture, an entire population of young people who lived from doorway to doorway, eking out a bleak existence he could only imagine. Haven's shoulders sagged, but only for a moment. Then she was hurrying to chop something else. Afterward she turned toward him, her cheeks pleasantly pink from the heat of the range. She cornered him against the cabinet, holding up a piece of something for him to eat.

"Here," she said, "Try this. See if you like it."

Carth carefully took the bit of leafy green from her fingers, choosing to take it with his hand and not his teeth, noting with an excited jolt that her hands smelled strongly of peppery anise and sweet basil. He tasted the leaf, his skin flushing from the intense, tangy flavor. He smiled as he chewed, feeling the small, clandestine wonder of a new flavor he had never experienced before.

"What is that?"

"Do you like it?" she asked, intent.

"It's… Good, really good. Tastes like…"

"Summer?" she supplied. Carth nodded slowly, realizing that she was right. That was exactly the word he had been searching for.

"Yes. Like summer."

The food was ready a moment later and she served him a healthy portion of everything, making little mounds of the different sauces and stews and purees. She began to eat right away, sitting on one of the cabinets, her bare feet bouncing rhythmically against the side of it.

"Should we get Mical?" he asked.

"I made plenty, he can eat whenever," she said, shoveling another forkful of food into her mouth. "Don't worry. It won't hurt his feelings."

"Do you know him then?" Carth asked, eating slowly, taking his time in order to concentrate on every delicious bit of it. He hadn't eaten so well in months. The rosy thrill of spicy food filtered through his chest and slowly down to his toes until his entire body felt delightfully warm.

"Mical? No," she said, shaking her blonde head from side to side. "But I feel a connection with him, it's… Difficult to describe. It's like we've met before, on some other plane of existence. I knew right away I had nothing to fear from him."

"But he fought you," Carth pointed out, reluctant to stop eating.

"Fought?" she repeated, her fawn-colored eyebrows tenting with concern. "We sparred, but it was more like a conversation. I guess that's hard to understand… In those movements, in the language of battle we communicated. He won my trust."

"You mean you surrendered?"

"Something like that," she replied, nodding. She had already finished one portion and went to refill her plate. Carth had barely eaten a quarter of his plate. Haven hopped back up onto the cabinet and resumed eating. "He's the better swordsman, I saw that. If he wanted to he could have struck me down. But he wants to teach me and I want to learn. I can't explain it, I feel bonded to him, intertwined."

Carth swallowed with difficulty, coughing to keep from choking. He threw back an entire cup of water, drowning the sensation that burned in his chest, a sensation that deeply troubled him. It wasn't the spicy food, that much was certain. He went on eating, determined to hide his fears, determined not to let her pick up on his thoughts.

_Jealousy_.

"Good?" she asked mid-chew, nodding toward his plate.

"If this whole Jedi thing falls through I think you've got a future in food," he said, grinning. She beamed back at him and, as he watched, her face fell a little. She looked quickly down at her plate, away from him as if embarrassed, and then back up. Her face was pale, worried.

"I shouldn't have taken your shirt off," she said. "It was wrong. It's just… Where I come from, if you don't stand up for yourself…"

"You don't have to explain," Carth replied. "I shouldn't have been spying."

"I feel like an ass," she admitted, her shoulder sagging again under an invisible weight. "I guess I'll have to learn some manners."

"Not _too_ many."

Carth had finished his food and took her silverware and empty plate, piling them in the basin of the automatic washer. He turned back to her, listening to the _thump-thud-thump-thud_ of her heels against the cabinet. Suddenly she jumped down, brushing the crumbs off the front of her sweater before turning to go.

"I should start sewing."

"Sewing?"

"I'll need new clothes," she said. "And I think I'll help myself to the assassin woman's things." Absentmindedly, her fingertips brushed over the long bruise on her face.

"A vigilante who cooks and sews?" Carth asked. "You're not like any Jedi I've met before."

"Mm," she replied, one foot out the door. "We're not all bad."

"What do you mean?"

Haven stopped, one hand propped on the doorframe. Her hair had dried, leaving her short shock of blonde hair to fall like a crest over her forehead. "The one who wounded you, she is the source of your mistrust. But not all of us are like that."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Carth said, withdrawing almost immediately. He felt his defenses go up, the cold, hard shield of indifference.

"You wear it like a wound, Admiral. I saw it," she said, nodding toward him, "on your chest."

"You _what_?"

"It's strange," Haven added, regarding him with a quizzical expression, "usually a wound begins to heal with time, but not yours. It's as raw now as the day she gave it to you."

"Get out," he said. A dark and dangerous feeling rose in his throat, strangling him. What did she know about anything? What gave her the right to pry? She didn't belong in his thoughts. No one belonged there. She looked frightened suddenly and he knew, sensed, that his eyes were snapping with the fury churning painfully in his heart.

"I, I didn't--"

"Get. Out. Get out!" he roared.

The Jedi fled, carrying her confused, hurt expression as she went. Carth looked down at his hands and saw that he was gripping the edge of the counter, gripping it so hard his knuckles had turned white and a fingernail had fissured and cracked from digging against the steel. This wasn't him, what he felt now, it couldn't be. He closed his eyes, the anger turning swiftly to sadness. He wanted to be off that damned ship, away from the familiar halls and rooms, away from the ghostly memories of a woman he could no longer hold and love.

Carth put a hand over his shirt, over the place where he knew the invisible scar festered. Had she really seen it? Of course she had, he thought with a sneer, she was a Jedi, she could sort through a man's thoughts, spy on a man's feelings effortlessly. He had put his guard down, let himself be lulled into complacency by a Jedi, again. The Jedi girl was wrong: they were all bad, all of them.

He didn't know where to go. He didn't want to be seen or scrutinized. Silently, he crept down the hall to the med bay and shut himself inside, pacing until he felt too exhausted to go on, turning in circles until he found he could no longer stand.


	8. 08 Newcomers

The ship drifted to a halt as they dropped out of hyperspace. Looking out the window, Haven could see their destination appear out the window, suspended like a cool, blue marble in space. She recognized the planet at once, having seen it many times before in her visions and dreams. Standing, she changed into the clothing she had spent the last two hours altering. The assassin woman was tall and too slender at the shoulders and so Haven had carefully cut and re-stitched several pairs of pants, tops and the strange body suits the woman liked so much.

She zipped up the tight, synthetic trousers. They clung to her legs like a second-skin, a feeling she was unfamiliar with. For months she had worn the same set of tattered black robes, disguising her identity, her face and even her gender. Now there was no more reason to hide who she was, but these bizarre clothes would take some getting used to. The sensation of the tight, rubbery clothing against her skin was not altogether unpleasant, just alien, like stepping onto a new planet for the first time. Fortunately, the assassin woman's feet were relatively the same size as Haven's, and so she slipped on a pair of the woman's tall, thick boots with ease.

The bra she found fit more or less, that was good. As she shrugged it on and did up the clasp she smiled sadly to herself, thinking of the sweet-faced pilot with his solemn, wounded eyes. She had kept her promise but she knew there would be no reason for him to keep his. He would not visit her again, not after she had offended him so. She had hurt the Telosian man, struck at his pride without meaning to and she regretted it.

There was a knock at the door as she zipped up the short-sleeved, high-necked synthetic shirt. Feeling like a stranger in her own body, she turned toward the door.

"Come in."

The handsome Jedi Master stepped into the communications room, his hood back, a familiar lightsaber clasped in his gloved hand. He took a moment to look at her at a distance and then came forward, offering her the lightsaber. She took it, nervous, avoiding his searching eyes.

"Remarkable," he said gently, "How did you know to replace the crystal?"

Haven stared down at her lightsaber. It had once been a Sith weapon, but she had cracked it open, fiddled with the innards, tinkering and experimenting until it met her requirements. She had taken out the red, evil crystal and smashed it under an armful of titanium bricks.

"I read about these," she said, indicating the saber. "There were no instructions but I knew… Somehow I knew… I bought the crystal from a visiting merchant on Nar Shadaa. He didn't know what it was worth but I felt it as soon as he handed it to me."

"So I was not mistaken? You do wish to complete your training, to learn how to focus and control your power?" he asked. Haven went to the bench beneath the window and sat, cradling the saber in her lap. Mical joined her, his soothing presence settling around her like a warm blanket.

"That is my wish," she replied, nodding.

"Are you certain? You sound unhappy."

Haven looked up at him then, into his eyes, knowing that he would see at once what troubled her. His brow increased, his dark blue eyes raking over her face. She felt a powerful compulsion to talk to him, to tell him everything in her mind, to unload all of her anxieties and fears.

"I should not have let you meet him alone," Mical said. He raised his hand as if in benediction and the faint pain in her cheek disappeared.

"I upset him," Haven said simply. "I should not have brought up the Jedi. I didn't realize… I felt only a tremendous sadness, emptiness. I thought I might help him."

"You will learn to focus that instinct," Mical told her. "That much I can teach you. I cannot, however, teach you how to proceed with tact. His sadness is complicated and deeply personal. He perceives your concern as an attack, and he would rather suffer in silence than admit to his despair."

"I see that now," she said, shaking her head, feeling profoundly stupid.

"Whereas I will freely admit that I miss the Exile with all my heart, and that I long for her return, Carth has no faith in Revan anymore. To him, she has left for good, never to return, and because of that perhaps he is right. Perhaps he has made the choice for her. His unwillingness to believe in her, to keep hope, has set the course."

"I totally blew it," Haven said, the weight of her guilt riding on her shoulders. "You wanted him to come with us, didn't you? But now he'll leave. I'm sorry. I failed you already like a jerk."

"His path is not clear to me," Mical replied, looking away. He seemed to be searching for signs, for ripples from the Force, but he turned back to her with an empty expression. "His choice is not yet made. Perhaps I was wrong. Perhaps your candor has helped, not hindered."

"Good luck getting him to admit that."

"No, he is not one to talk about his feelings openly," Mical said, laughing. "He is a man, after all, a man brought up in the military. What we might consider honesty he considers weakness, and he will not speak plainly to close friends, much less strangers."

"I'll be more careful," she said, forcing a smile. "I won't bring it up again."

"I can't advise that, actually," Mical told her, standing. "Go forward as you naturally would, little one. Do not indulge him. He is a grown man. It is high time he learned to trust."

Mical touched her shoulder gently, imparting in that small gesture a great measure of peace. He went to the door and paused, turning back to her, his gray robes falling in a rushing mist around his feet. "We'll be landing very soon. Then your training can begin."

"Master?" she called.

"Yes?"

"Do you mean for him to be a Jedi too?"

"It is difficult for a man of his years to begin training, but not impossible. That is for him to decide. And he _will_ decide… With your help."

She couldn't be sure, but she thought perhaps he had winked at her as he left. Haven looked back out the window, at the swirling blue surface of the planet below and its three orbiting moons hanging like fat pearls on a string of pale stars. It was strange and exciting to look at a planet covered in water and not skyscrapers. All her life she had lived among the filth and rabble, scraping out an existence in the ugliest cities in the galaxy. Something about the sight of that blue planet made her heart leap; finally she would be surrounded by trees, grass, water, clean air…

Her heart felt full and she calmed herself, slipping into a trance, quieting the excited fears that gnawed at her stomach. Soon, soon they would land and she could begin again.

* * *

Carth had expected Dantooine or maybe Coruscant to be Mical's "secret" destination. As the landing gear dropped and the hydraulics set them down gently on the planet, however, he saw that he was completely wrong.

He crept out of the med bay and tentatively made his way to the exit ramp. The ship was quiet, humming with the computerized machinery cooling down after the trip. The ramp had already been lowered and there was no sign of Mical, the Jedi girl or his brother. He pulled on the red jacket his brother had given him, guarding his arms from the sudden cool wind that trickled up the ramp toward him. It felt like early morning as he stepped out of the ship and onto the spongy ground. The sun was just rising, molten gold and silver on the blue horizon, its rays flashing out over the dense line of trees in the distance. Smooth, wet air brushed his cheeks and the lively, emerald trees surrounding the landing pad were shiny with dew. Crickets and frogs chirped in robust competition, singing and croaking as if it was their final hour of life.

It was chilly outside the ship, but he found the first hints of daytime warmth as he began to walk, the slats of sunlight offering a brief shimmer of heat. The fresh air was a nice change from the stale ship and he found his lungs expanded greedily, sucking down the rich, mossy oxygen with pleasure. Outside the landing clearing he saw a group of people standing. There were two shuttle speeders waiting, hovering just above a shallow pond. Carth approached the group carefully and found that it was Mical, Haven and a few people he didn't recognize. They wore Jedi robes, but not in the usual tan and brown; these robes were varying shades of gray and white.

As he neared, Mical turned and waved, ushering him over enthusiastically. They stood beside a series of ponds, long-legged bugs and lilies skimming the crystalline surface. His brother, Akil and Spryte—still unconscious—had been loaded into one of the shuttles, their eyes hidden behind thick blindfolds. A familiar face peered at him from the helm of the shuttle, her yellow cat eyes twinkling in the early-morning light.

"_Juhani_?"

"Hello Captain," she said in her gently accented voice, "Or forgive me, Admiral." She inclined her sleek head, bowing to him.

"Master Juhani was one of the first to defect to our cause," Mical explained. "She has been an invaluable asset and a wise teacher."

Haven stood a foot or two behind Mical, hiding as if shy of the strangers. She avoided Carth's eyes and he suddenly regretted speaking to her so harshly. He waited for her to look at him but she kept her eyes firmly on Mical's feet.

"And this is Master Bao-Dur," Mical said, extending his hand toward the Zabrak driving the empty shuttle. "This is Admiral Carth Onasi."

Carth half-recognized the amiable looking Zabrak, his memory kindled by the bright blue beam of energy holding the man's left arm together. He looked between Mical and Master Bao-Dur and chuckled.

_A friend built this arm for me._

"Good to meet you," Carth said, waving.

"Let's be on our way," Bao-Dur said, motioning to his empty shuttle. "The sun will be up soon and the heat out here is unbearable."

Carth took a seat at the back of the shuttle, watching as Haven and Mical boarded, sitting a few seats away from him, allowing him his privacy and space. Juhani went first, speeding off away from the clearing, following a subtle path marked in the ground with paving stones. Bao-Dur followed, pointing out various features of the landscape on the way. Carth liked him immediately; he had a straightforward, military way of communicating that put him at ease.

They left the thick trees behind, flying out onto a long, treacherous causeway that gradually rose up and over the water. The ponds had begun linking together until finally they turned gradually into a wide expanse of sea. Carth looked over the edge of the causeway, watching as the water became deeper and deeper, murky shadows hinting at the enormous sea creatures below. Above them the cottony purple clouds obscured the rising sun, painting a delicate panorama behind the rocky island jutting up in front of them at the end of the causeway. Haven pointed to a group of greenish brown mammals floating on their backs, their furry stomachs strewn with seaweed; their finned ears perked up as the shuttle rumbled over the bridge.

"_Lontra Salmaris_," she said, "green salt otters."

"They make dens along the causeway," Mical replied, his voice whipped back toward Carth by the steady wind. He looked at Haven, wondering how in hell she would know something like that. She caught his eye accidentally but didn't look away.

"The library," she called to him. "You should try it sometime."

"They have _libraries_ on Nar Shadaa?"

She made a face, stammering for a comeback. Mical watched them, observing silently with his calm, attentive gaze. "I never told you where I grew up."

Carth pointed to his own head. "The hair," he said, "but I guess that'll be gone soon."

"Gone?" she repeated.

"Isn't a Padawan required to shave their head or something?"

"An Enclave Padawan perhaps," Mical answered, "but not a Gray Jedi."

Carth fell silent as they made progress across the causeway. The rocky island was closer now and he could make out a series of ivory buildings jutting out from the stone itself, carved into the face of the island. From a distance the buildings would look like a hard cap of snow but he saw now that there were windows and doors and long, thin walkways winding between the different sides of the island. At the very base of the causeway, in front of the island, a wide-mouthed cove emerged, a smattering of boats bobbing in the water below.

The causeway split into two avenues, one leading up to the white buildings and the other leading down toward the cove. Juhani's shuttle peeled off, disappearing as they wound down toward the water level. Bao-Dur, however, drove straight, bringing them up and up as the causeway rose to meet the high balconies of the buildings.

"Where is she taking my brother?" he asked, leaning over the edge of the shuttle to catch one last glimpse of Gatlin and his friends being ferried away.

"He'll be embarking on a little trip," Mical replied, "to Kantu. We can't let him stay here. The Republic might get suspicious and come looking. They'll be given safe passage to Kantu's starship."

"Good riddens," Carth murmured, wondering if he would ever see Gatlin again. He suspected yes, that he would be seeing Gatlin again sooner rather than later.

The shuttle began to slow, bringing them into a tunnel carved into the rock. On either side, statues and figures had been hewn into the stone, sprawling reliefs of Jedi locked in battle. The events depicted went in chronological order, spanning decades of struggle, and as they zoomed by, Carth could swear he caught a glimpse of a figure that looked suspiciously like Revan. Maybe he was somewhere on that wall, he mused, or perhaps it was reserved for Jedi alone.

"Welcome to Gray Harbor," Mical told them as the tunnel fell away. It was warmer outside of the tunnel, the sun shining down in earnest. They emerged into a broad courtyard. Tall buildings rose up on every side so that it felt like they drove along the bottom of a steep, ivory ravine. The stone seemed to breathe around them, absorbing the sun, the walls, floors and stairs shimmering with infinitesimally small crystals. From above, silver brocade banners hung down from the windows embroidered with a dark gray symbol in the middle, a sort of cross-hair with a diamond stamped at the very middle.

Carth had seen holos of the Elder ruins on Naboo, but even those monumentally beautiful images paled in comparison to this stone city. A dizzying number of staircases led in vanishing directions, the banners and pennants over head snapping in the wind. They entered another shorter tunnel and emerged into a smaller courtyard. This seemed to be the heart of the city and Bao-Dur stopped the shuttle outside a tall set of double doors emblazoned with the same circle and diamond insignia. A small coterie of greeters waited, dressed like Bao-Dur and Mical in storm gray robes and white hoods.

The air grew thick with fragrance, and Carth noticed then that the windows and doors around the courtyard had been festooned with bright wreathes. The blue and magenta blossoms sat heavy on their stems, each the size of a grown man's fist. Bees skimmed across the courtyard, their little harry legs decorated with jewels of pollen. Bao-Dur opened the shuttle door, holding it for Mical, Haven and Carth as they jumped down onto solid ground. At once, Carth felt a deeply resonant peace flooding up from the stones beneath, as if the entire mountain of stone sat in constant meditation.

Mical led them to the greeters, pulling Haven by her elbow until she could be clearly seen by the robed figures. Carth stood a few paces off, looking at Haven, trying and failing to guess what she might be thinking. She had spoken briefly about her rough childhood, what must it be like to rise from vagrancy to a place like this? The tension in her shoulders spoke volumes and he looked at her hands. They trembled. He realized then that he and Haven were the only two people there dressed in anything but sober gray. She was dressed head to toe in tight black, standing in stark contrast to Mical's misty robe.

"Masters," Mical said, addressing the gathering, "may I introduce Haven Blake. Young Haven has been giving the Republic a hard time, and while she has no formal training, I believe her heart is open and willing."

Haven shuffled forward awkwardly, bowing her head a little, glancing around for a clue as to what she should be doing. Mical then gestured to Carth and he came forward, throwing his shoulders back as he stood at attention.

"This is Admiral Carth Onasi," Mical said. "These are the Masters in residence at Gray Harbor. I present Master Jardana and Master Chase. You've already met Bao-Dur, Juhani and myself. These others you see assembled are our Knights. There will be time later, after brunch, for you to meet them all."

While Master Jardana, simply bowed at the waist to Carth and Haven, Master Chase came forward, trotting toward Carth with a burst of unbound energy. He immediately took Carth's hand, shaking it up and down, grinning all the while. Carth couldn't help but smile, taken aback by the Master's effusive friendliness.

"It's an honor, Admiral," he said, pumping Carth's hand again. "I've long wished to meet you and thank you for your service to the galaxy and to the side of good."

Master Chase was a man of average height, with a prominent, straight nose and squinting eyes. His dark hair was close-cropped and thinning, but despite his age he had the energy and boyish good looks of a teenager. His accent was thick, rustic, but that only seemed to add to his overwhelming charm. By contrast, Master Jardana was quiet and thoughtful, standing apart but observing them closely. She was a pale blue Twi'lek woman with a sweet, welcoming smile and small but intelligent brown eyes. Carth's attention was drawn to her earrings, which were long and dangling, studded with a myriad of bright, priceless jewels. Master Chase soon turned his attention to Haven and greeted her with similar enthusiasm, hooking a fatherly arm around her shoulder before guiding her away from the courtyard. The big double doors in front of them opened, and Carth fell into step behind Master Chase and Haven, his eyes adjusting as they entered the tall, echoing hall.

"This is our meeting place," Mical explained, appearing at Carth's side. "We take our meals here, together, and if there are matters to discuss we come here to hold our debates."

"Where did you get the money for this?" Carth breathed, staring up in open-mouthed awe at the vaulted space and the exposed steel beams that held up the ceiling like the ribs of some gargantuan sea creature. High, tinted windows let in square shafts of light, illuminating the long tables and benches.

"Donations primarily," Mical replied. "There are many who agree with our way of life. While they may not feel at leisure to voice their opinions publically, their charitable contributions speak loud and clear."

"The Exile gave us her share of treasures from her travels," Bao-Dur added, walking next to Mical. "They were knickknacks mostly, souvenirs and the bulk of them went to museums on Coruscant and Manaan. I probably don't need to tell you that they auctioned for a considerable amount."

"Our needs are simple," Mical said. "We encourage the Knights and apprentices to grow their own food, fish and take care of the land. Our society is self-sustaining and that's the way we hope to keep it."

"It's nice," Carth said, hating what he was about to say, "but I shouldn't stay."

Mical flashed his eyes at the Zabrak, who quickly departed, going to sit at one of the dining tables. Carth felt Mical's robotic hand wrap around his arm and the Jedi tugged him away, out of hearing range. "Do you really think you're strong enough?" he asked.

"Strong enough? For what?"

"However misguided your brother may be, he did you a great service," Mical replied.

"Yeah? How do you figure?"

"Listen to me Carth: there is day, there is the night and then there is dawn. I think we both know that you were living in shadow. What are you so eager to return to? What urgent problem demands your attention?" Mical asked, lowering his voice. Carth glanced from side to side, wary of Mical's penetrative gaze, nervous that the Jedi would get nosey and start sifting through his thoughts.

"The fleet needs me."

"That may be true," Mical replied. "But right now your superiors are mired in political corruption. Nobody knows how to stop the threat of the True Sith, and while the Order and the Republic bicker tirelessly about who is better equipped to take on the Sith, their power only grows, feeding on the confusion and frustration."

"What happened? I thought you dropped off your man Rand with the Order."

"I did," Mical said firmly, shuddering, "And then I left. I had nothing to offer them. They are determined, as always, to return to their traditional ways, all the while ignoring that the two most powerful women in the galaxy, our best hope for survival, were pushed to the limits of their patience by the blasted Jedi code." Mical was agitated, his dislike for the Order surfacing in his slight sneer.

Carth took a step back, unprepared for this argument. He hadn't expected Mical to shift the topic to those Jedi. That Jedi.

"What are you saying?" Carth asked, refusing to balk.

"I do not seek to trouble you or rehash unpleasantness, but it is time you knew the truth. The Exile went to join Revan in the Unknown Regions, that much I'm sure you know. But it is also true that the Exile has not stayed their permanently. She has returned. She comes and goes, Carth, traveling between this planet and the Unknown Regions. The Republic forces cannot be relied upon. I am building her army. I am doing her bidding."

Carth stared at him, dumbstruck, letting the implications of Mical's story wash over in an icy, startling wave. If what the Jedi said was true, then this woman, this Exile, would know how to find Revan. Hope, like a cruel, twisting flame, burned in his heart.

"They're working together?" Carth asked, unable to mask his excitement. "Revan and the Exile?"

"Yes," Mical said simply. He paused, giving Carth a long, hard look. "Now do you wish to leave?"

"Are you two coming or what?"

Carth looked over at the table, where Haven waved at them. She sat next to the Twi'lek and across from Master Chase. Mical indicated that he should go ahead, letting Carth choose. "Stay for the meal," Mical murmured, "and make your decision after."

He nodded, going to sit next to Haven, who patted the empty space beside her. An odd gesture, he thought, considering how apish he had been on the ship. The fleeting little kindling of warmth in his chest told him that she had forgiven him already, that she wasn't one to hold a grudge. Master Chase dominated the conversation, chatting amiably about this and that, asking Haven question after question about her upbringing, her understanding of the Force. A dozen or so Knights entered from a back exit, bringing with them trays laden with bowls full of fresh fruit, plates heaped high with cheeses, steaming loaves of crusty bread and platters of meat, fish and steamed vegetables. It was good food in abundance, simply prepared, with leafy bunches of fragrant herbs strewn generously alongside the plates.

Carth ate heartily, listening to the conversation, dividing his attention between a helping of garlic steamed clams, lemon-drenched mussels and a smoked fish he had never eaten before. Everyone seemed to be quietly amused by Haven, who ate so rapidly and so much that it seemed impossible her small frame could hold all that food. Wine and fruit juice was passed up and down the table, and Carth felt himself getting a little drunk from the heady mixture of delicious food and wine.

"We grow the grapes right here on the mountainside," Master Jardana explained, nodding toward Carth's newly-empty wine glass. "If you like, I will show you the trellises later this afternoon."

"You make the wine yourselves?" Haven asked, her eyes growing wide at the idea. She too, Carth thought with a smirk, seemed tipsy.

"We do," Mical answered, his eyes sparkling in response to her infectious curiosity. He and the other Masters were elated at her keen interest in their school. Mical leaned across the table, lowering his voice as he spoke to her. With his gloved hand he plucked a lush, round grape from one of the fruit bowls and popped it into his mouth. "Tomorrow you can help begin a new batch. You won't believe how it feels to crush the grapes underfoot. The sensation is exquisite."

Carth prickled, unable to take his eyes off of Haven, whose round cheeks had suddenly grown rosy. It was not, he realized, just the wine. He didn't like the way she stared at Mical, the way her eyes lingered on his beguiling eyes and pretty mouth. Carth admitted begrudgingly that the Jedi Master glowed with the Force, that his skin appeared so smooth it was almost inhuman, dusted with diamonds. He wondered for a moment if he would look like that under the influence of the Force, if he was taught to feel it, understand it…

"Admiral, I have to admit I was most impressed by your performance at the Battle of Rakata Prime," Master Chase said, raising his cup as if in toast to Carth. "I was there aboard the Star Forge, leading a squadron of Jedi Knights. You saved one of them actually, he was at the mercy of one of Malak's warriors and would have fallen had you not shot the Sith down in time."

Carth shrugged, trying his best to keep his cheeks from coloring. "I was just doing my job."

"Certainly, but what a very good job you did," Chase replied. "I can't help but admire a man whose had no Jedi training at all, but who's willing to face down the Sith! And on their own battle station no less. And it goes without saying that your performance in the Mandalorian Wars was extraordinary. I remember hearing of you from Master Vrook. He claimed to have seen you face down an entire line of Mandalorians almost entirely on your own, with nothing but a few fresh recruits and a gun turret!"

"Is that really true?"

Carth glanced to his right, where Haven listened intently, her gray eyes focused closely on his face. He felt that blush he had been fighting creep up his neck and spread to his face. Not knowing what to do, not knowing how to confront her rapt expression, he shrugged again and buried himself in his cup. "I had lots of help," Carth said finally, "Vrook was exaggerating."

"Don't be so modest, Admiral," Mical admonished, clearly enjoying Carth's distress. Mical ate another grape, his eyes flicking between Carth and Haven, signaling something Carth refused to acknowledge. "There's a reason we'd like you to stay," Mical added, "and I'm afraid it has little to do with your charming personality. You're an asset, a born fighter and leader."

"_And_ a perfectly charming fellow," Master Chase interjected, laughing throatily along with Mical. At his side, Haven nodded her agreement, draining the last of her wine.

"Well," Mical said, pushing away from the table and standing, "I think it's time we gave young Haven a tour of the compound."

"Certainly," Master Jardana agreed.

Haven looked to Carth, but she was swiftly pulled away by Master Jardana. The two of them, along with Mical, vanished into the sunlight of the courtyard, leaving Carth to sit at the table with the Knights and Master Chase. Everyone seemed to be having a good time, chatting and eating, drinking and laughing. He had seen the Enclave on Dantooine, lived many days with Revan in its monastic simplicity; this was something entirely different. No one here seemed to carry the heavy, solemn burden of the Jedi on Dantooine. They were happy, outgoing, smiling at him as if they had known him for years.

"It's a new way of looking at things," Master Chase said, interpreting Carth's distracted look. "Come."

Master Chase stood and motioned for him to follow. Carth walked with him to the tall doors, squinting as the bright sunlight flooded his eyes. They strolled through the courtyard; a little wicker nest for doves sat near the door and the snowy white birds hooted and pecked at the ground, scattering when a group of young apprentices ran by and into the hall.

"We are Jedi," Master Chase said suddenly, his hands clasped in front of him as he led Carth up a set of winding stairs. They emerged onto a high balcony with a silver railing. Below, the harbor and causeway spread out, hundreds of feet below them, clear and sharp in the daylight. Carth breathed deeply of the fresh mountain air, watching as Master Chase leaned one hand on the railing, his pale eyes fixed on the horizon.

"We are Jedi," he repeated, "and we are something more. This is the Exile's vision, Mical's vision. Together they dreamed a new world into existence. We are their children, in a way. They knew the old way could not endure, not when the Republic insisted on nosing around the Enclave's business. No, we need to be free to act, to train, to concentrate on the threat that looms just out of our sight."

"Sounds like the fleet," Carth said darkly.

"It is a warrior's life, you're right," Chase replied. "But for the Gray Jedi life is about finding simple joys. There is no extremism here. We acknowledge that the Dark Side of the Force is dangerous, but that our passions should not be snuffed out. Passion is as legitimate as peace, love and loss as key to the soul as serenity and sacrifice."

"'There is day, there is the night and then there is dawn,'" Carth quoted, recalling Mical's words.

"Yes, yes that's exactly it," Chase replied, nodding approvingly. "Whether you know it or not, Admiral, you are here to be healed. This place cannot be resisted; there is a magic here that goes beyond the Force. Mical and Ava felt that, it is why they laid down roots here."

"Ava?"

"The Exile," Master Chase replied. "She is an extraordinary person. You will feel a gladness in your heart when you meet her that defies rational explanation. It must be felt to be understood."

"She's coming? Here? When?"

"I'm not certain," he said, "but soon, very soon. I have sensed it." Master Chase took hold of Carth's shoulder, inviting him to look down at the courtyard where two young apprentices sparred, their wooden practice swords polished and flashing.

"Have you wondered yet why your brother found you when he did? Have you considered that what you call Fate and I call the Force may have had something to do with it? Search your feelings, Carth, there are simply too many coincidences. And as a soldier, I'm sure you know…"

"There _are_ no coincidences."

"Yes. Your great pain, your brother, Haven and Mical and now this place – the Force is speaking to you, if you would only listen," Master Chase said, his voice a soft murmur above the insistent wind. "You're here," he said, "and you will stay. But not for the reason you think."

Carth opened his mouth to speak, to argue, but Master Chase had gone, sweeping down the stairs and into the courtyard. He watched as the Jedi Master corrected the stance of one of the sparring apprentice's, ruffling the boy's hair with fatherly tenderness. He looked around but saw no sign of Haven or Mical; he wondered if she was still afraid, if her hands still trembled.

Knowing there was nothing but time, he continued climbing the stairs, letting his feet take him were they would.


End file.
